The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance

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The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance Page 14

by Stuart M. Kaminsky


  Lyle had left his door open. I could see him in the trees at the side of the road. I couldn’t see Sutker. I got up, dove into the front seat, and shifted the idling Chrysler into gear. I hadn’t bothered to close the driver’s door that Sutker had left open when he jumped. I should have. Sutker grabbed my arm as I hit the gas. The jerk forward slammed him against the side of the car. He held on to my arm until I jerked forward again and he had to let go to keep from hitting the asphalt of Alameda with his already broken nose. I didn’t turn around to look for Lyle. I drove. About two hundred yards down the street I stopped to close my door and reach back to close the rear door. Running down the road toward me in the distance were Lyle and Sutker, their red shirts catching the light of oncoming cars not curious enough to slow down to see what they were up to.

  On the way back to Los Angeles I listened to Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians singing “Ain’t We Got Fun.” I hummed along for a few bars. When the song was over, I stopped for a hot dog and Pepsi at a roadside stand. The car hop said her name was Melinda and that she had been entered in the Car Hop of the Year contest. She also told me she was seventeen and had a brother and father in the Army. I wished them all luck and finished a second hot dog as I drove. I spilled ketchup and Pepsi on the front seat.

  Back in town I parked the Chrysler on Main and hoofed it to No-Neck Arnie’s to retrieve my Crosley. Arnie wasn’t there. He had left a few hours earlier. His night man, Otto, a wiry grunter, grunted hello to me. I asked if I could use the phone. He grunted. I didn’t have the Larchmonts’ phone number but I looked up the Alhambra and called. Straight-Ahead came on about three minutes after I asked for him.

  “Leave a note for the Larchmonts,” I said. “Their car is on Main near Twelfth.”

  “Will do,” said Straight-Ahead. “Officers of the law are looking for you, Toby. You might check in with them.”

  “No time,” I said. “I’ve got to figure out a way to find Alex.”

  “No problem,” he said. “Merit Beason thinks he’s up in Room one-twelve right now. Checked in last Saturday. I did a double check on the registration book. Alex Tuster from Meridian, Mississippi. I checked Tuster’s room when he was out just on the name, nothing to lose, you know?”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Merit Beason found what may be one of the missing files from the safe in the desk. You want to come on over?”

  “Toby Peters is on the way,” I said, and hung up.

  When I reached the Alhambra, I knew something was different from the night before. Gone were the sailors and Olivia’s sisters in the profession. The place had been taken over by men and women in white pullover shirts, white shoes, and white pants. Straight-Ahead was at the entrance. A few new light bulbs had been put in the ceiling, probably to be removed when this group of starched characters departed.

  “Health fiends,” Straight-Ahead explained as he motioned for me to follow him. “Three floors booked. Miracle Mineral Water all over the place. Guy over there has a booth in the ballroom. You buy ten gallons, you get one free.”

  I caught snatches of conversation as I followed Straight-Ahead, who moved as always straight ahead to the elevator.

  “Alkaline …” said a woman.

  “Saline …” countered a man.

  “Tried a glass,” said Straight-Ahead as I pushed past a pair of white even teeth surrounded by a woman who looked like a compact refrigerator. “Maybe it was imagination, but it made the bullet hole ache. Thought the stuff would come pouring out. Don’t recommend it.”

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  “Arthritis, acidosis, neuritis,” said a man on one side.

  “No, high blood pressure, autointoxication, rheumatism,” echoed a woman on the other side.

  “Magnesiac, antacid, diuretic,” came a third voice as we stepped into the elevator.

  “Up?” asked a woman with teeth almost as white as the little refrigerator woman.

  “Up,” I agreed. “Two.”

  “These are self-service elevators,” Straight-Ahead said, turning his large body toward the woman, a rather small, straight-backed creature of no certain age, with short black hair and in uniform white.

  “Dr. Miracle asked me to run the elevator as a service to the members,” she explained. “To keep track of where they are going and remind them that the convention is primarily in the first-floor boardroom. You two are not with us?”

  “We’re not against you either,” I said.

  “Merit Beason thinks you’d better not run the elevator,” Merit Beason said.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Him,” I said, nodding at Straight-Ahead.

  “Dr. Miracle—” she began.

  “He can see Merit Beason,” Merit said. “The house security officer.”

  We were at two and stepped off.

  “Larchmonts might not like your disciplining the nonviolent paying guests,” I said.

  “Tojo’s ass,” he said. “I’m getting too old for fools and fads. I have a feeling Merit Beason’s not long for the Alhambra.”

  He found the right door, inserted his pass key, and stepped in.

  “Your employers and I just had a short talk,” I said. “They’re worried about the files that Teddy and Alex took out of the safe Sunday. They are so worried that they want me to stay out of the whole thing, or two of their other employees named Lyle and Sutker will be sure that I stay out.”

  “A pair of melons,” sighed Straight-Ahead, turning on the light. “No art to either one of them. They don’t seem—”

  “A runaway barrage balloon was sent by God to rescue me from them tonight,” I said, looking around the small, obviously unoccupied room.

  “Right,” said Straight-Ahead. “Heard it on the radio. Broke loose on the coast. Came to rest in Lynwood. Lots of danger. What a world.”

  “What a world,” I agreed, as Straight-Ahead opened the drawer to the desk and pointed to an envelope. I picked it up, opened it, and read part of the contents.

  “Son of—” I started.

  “James Farley, John Nance Garner, Willie Randolph Hearst,” said Straight-Ahead. “You name ’em, the Larchmonts had ’em hooked. You’d think people like that would see through the phony fronts. They got less for their money than Dr. Miracle’s Mineral Water.”

  “For a lot more per gallon,” I said. “Where are Alex’s things?”

  “Gone,” said Straight-Ahead. “Nothing here but that envelope. Don’t ask why he left it. Oversight. Maybe a little teaser for us. Got a feeling that this is only the topsoil of what was in that safe.”

  “Well, we’ll keep these and contribute some erosion,” I said. “No point in going over the place?”

  “Merit Beason already did so,” he said. “From rolled up window shades to plumbing. Nothing else here. Did you get to the last page?”

  I hadn’t. I flipped through the dozen or so stapled pages and found a handwritten note with John Wayne’s name repeated about thirty times. A third-rate cartoon of a gun in the left-hand margin was shooting a bullet at Wayne’s name. The bullet was moving. You could tell from the straight lines behind it indicating the retreating air.

  “Merit Beason’s off at four in the morning and,” Straight-Ahead said, “will get himself down to Ward Bond’s house and keep an eye on Wayne and out for Alex. No real description on our Alex. Teddy checked him in. Clerk downstairs doesn’t remember him checking out. Ledger showed he paid cash. Guy who might have been him was seen checking out this morning. But it might not have been him.”

  “I’ll take these,” I said, tucking the envelope under my arm.

  “Okay with Merit Beason,” he said.

  “Merit, I can keep an eye on Wayne in the morning. How about you getting some rest. You got shot three days ago, almost …”

  “Time to rest when we’re under the ground,” he said. “People say Bat Masterson used to say that back in Kansas. Always thought he had a truth there. A job gets started, a job gets seen through to
the end. You keep bulldogging Alex. Merit’ll watch your client’s back.”

  I pulled out my wallet and counted off two twenties and handed them to Merit, who took them.

  “Client money?” he said.

  “The Duke’s,” I answered.

  “Fair is fair,” he said, putting the two twenties in a wallet that looked as if it had been sewed by the Indians who greeted the first Pilgrims.

  Someone screamed in the hall.

  “Back to the front,” Straight-Ahead said, walking slowly to the door.

  “Thanks, Merit,” I added.

  His back was to me as he answered, “My business, too. Two murders in my domain and me an almost third. Finding our Alex is a mission.”

  With that he went out, leaving me alone. I went over the contents of the envelope again, essentially a listing of people who had given the Larchmonts money for a variety of organizations, each one of which was listed after the investor or donor’s name, along with the amount donated or invested. Someone, probably Sydney Larchmont, had totaled the whole thing up on page three, exactly $214,327.68. Charlie Chaplin wasn’t even on the list of top contributors.

  Straight-Ahead was a pro. There was no point in going over the room again to see if I could turn up something on Alex that he had missed. As I stepped to the door, it began to open. I expected Straight-Ahead. I got John Cawelti.

  “Surprise,” he said.

  I was surprised.

  “Hey,” he said, grinning. “You want me to just turn around and leave? We can forget the whole thing.”

  “We’ve played this scene before John,” I said, trying to think of a way to swallow the envelope in one quick gulp without water.

  He touched his hair to be sure it was still parted in the middle, adjusted his jacket and tie, and smiled an unfriendly smile.

  “That was a tank full of crap about John Wayne the other day,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “It was true. Someone tried to shoot him this afternoon. I was there. Fellow named Alex. Alex shot Teddy last night, the clerk and …”

  “And …” Cawelti prompted with the evil smile of a leprechaun.

  “A guy named Lewis Vance on Sunday,” I said.

  “We found Vance this morning in a freezer at the San Luis Ice House. They’re slicing him now. Frozen solid. Doc says it gives him an idea about taking tissue samples. Thought you might like to know you contributed in a small way to forensic science.”

  “I’m pleased,” I said, watching him bounce on his heels.

  “Waiting for a ballistics report,” he went on. “I think the bullet in Vance is going to match your thirty-eight, the one turned in by your two friends. And I think we’re gonna get you on the Longretti killing last night. You got troubles, Peters, and I don’t think your big brother will even want to get you out of them.”

  Cawelti took a step toward me, teeth set, face a little redder than usual. “Why don’t you try to get by me,” he suggested. “Maybe I couldn’t stop you.”

  “You couldn’t,” I said, putting the envelope down on the desk, “but that bulge under your jacket could. Let’s go see Phil.”

  He stepped back, giving me a few yards to pass, reached over, and picked up the envelope, which was a mistake. I didn’t have much choice now. That list and the note on Wayne would have me tied up for a week. I didn’t see how they could get me for anything long-term on the two stiffs, but Cawelti could lock me in the can for a night. I threw an elbow as he turned for the package and caught him in the chest. He reached for his gun. I grabbed the envelope with one hand and with the other pulled at his jacket to make it a little hard for him to kill me. It was a great plan, well thought out, well executed. The problem was that it didn’t work. Cawelti had one free hand, which he used to hit me flat on my already flat nose. There was nothing left to break in my nose but that didn’t stop it from bleeding, and it didn’t stop me from staggering back, still clutching the envelope. I went over the bed and neatly rolled to a position on my knees, facing him. An unprejudiced audience would have appreciated the acrobatics, but Sergeant John Cawelti was not one of my fans.

  His gun was out and pointed at a spot around the center of my chest. At seven feet, even I would have hit a kneeling man.

  He looked happy.

  “Resisting arrest,” he said, pulling back the hammer of the revolver to extend his pleasure.

  “Murder suspect,” he went on.

  “I’m a Rosicrucian,” I said. “I’m also unarmed.”

  “I’m not going to kill you,” he said, his hair dangling in front of his eyes. “I’m just going to shoot a kneecap or two. Hurts like sin. I know. I’ve done it three times. Twice to the same guy.”

  I was on my feet now and the spirit of fear and feeling of I’ve-had-enough were on me. My legs were almost fifty years old. My back was a dry rubber band and I had a mouth full of blood. I knew I was going to make a leap for the good sergeant. Somewhere not too deep down I also knew I probably wouldn’t make it, but John Wayne had tried something crazier in Randy Rides the Range.

  The door moved behind Cawelti and bounced as it flew open.

  “What’s the discrepancy here?” Straight-Ahead said.

  Cawelti didn’t turn. His eyes and gun were leveled at me. “Murder suspect here is resisting arrest,” he said. “I’m going to subdue him with minimal force.”

  “Streets are yours,” Beason said. “Alhambra belongs to Merit Beason. It’s not much of a territory, but what there is in these ten floors is mine. Now put the weapon up.”

  Cawelti shook his head, holstered his revolver after releasing the hammer, and brushed back his hair. Then he turned to Straight-Ahead.

  “You’re on my list, Beason,” he hissed. “My Christmas list, right under Peters.”

  “I’ll take a tie,” I said.

  “You’ll take a ride to the Wilshire Station with me,” Cawelti said, rubbing his chest where I had thrown the elbow. Straight-Ahead removed a white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me as he walked around the bed. It was ironed and clean. I pressed it to my nose and it wasn’t clean anymore, probably never would be. I had a sudden image of Straight-Ahead in a one-room apartment in the rundown building he lived in, standing straight up in a pair of shorts and a white undershirt, ironing handkerchiefs by the bushel. I laughed.

  “Crazy bastard,” muttered Cawelti.

  “Merit will take care of our friend in the morning,” Straight-Ahead assured me.

  Cawelti stayed behind me on the elevator and through the lobby, where he zigzagged through glittering people drinking glasses of mineral water. I figured out now what was wrong with this gathering. This convention of health fadists included old men and women, people of odd shapes and sizes, and even some kids, but no young men. This was an army of those unsuited for combat, uniformed in white and obsessed with staying healthy. I shivered and heard the blast of disease and remedy words and decided that the crowd from last night, the drunken kids and the tarts in uniform, were probably healthier than this bunch.

  I tried not to bleed on them and they tried not to notice me. It was what we both wanted.

  Cawelti cuffed me and guided me into the backseat of his Pontiac. We didn’t talk much on the way to the Wilshire Station. I asked him how he knew I was in that room in the Alhambra. He said, “A tip.” It was the most cordial conversation I had ever had with John. Maybe we were on the way to a friendship. Maybe not.

  12

  By the time we got to the Wilshire Station I had succeeded in bleeding over most of the backseat of John Cawelti’s vehicle. The bleeding had stopped, but he didn’t appreciate my redecoration.

  “Christ,” he shouted, pounding the upholstery when he opened the door. “Look at that.”

  I looked at the blood. If my hands weren’t handcuffed I might have pointed out to him that his punch was at least partly responsible.

  “Get out,” he said, and helped me through the door. With my hands cuffed behind me, I did a rather neat dance to
keep from falling on my face. He had parked in a space right in front of the station. He prodded me up the stairs and through the door. The sergeant on duty at the desk—McConnell—was a little knot with glasses.

  “One of these days, Peters?” he said, turning from the two women who were chattering away at him in Martian.

  “One of these days, Frank,” I agreed.

  Cawelti took the cuffs off and prodded me to the washroom near the stairway leading up to the squad room and my brother’s office. It was a washroom that would have made a slum gas station’s look like home. Even the soap was too dirty for a civilized human being to touch and the towels were stiff and almost black.

  “Hurry up,” Cawelti grunted. “Wash.”

  Cawelti didn’t want Phil to see me bloody. We both knew it. Phil had no objection to my being bloody. He just wanted to be sure he was the one who did it. It was a commission he had taken on when we were kids and he objected to others cutting into the shelf life of his merchandise. Our old man was a grocer. Sometimes I can’t help thinking in grocery images.

  There was an ancient bum in the grime-speckled mirror. I looked at him with sympathy, washed his face with the crusty soap, dried it with my jacket lining, and smiled at him. He looked like shit.

  “Let’s go,” said Cawelti, and we went.

  We had to wait for about ten minutes outside Phil’s office. I was getting hungry again. The night was dark and I was tired. Cawelti checked his jacket pocket to be sure the envelope with the names and numbers was safely there. It was. He grinned, and for the first time I thought I had found a person who really deserved the care and attention of Dr. Sheldon Minck.

  Phil stuck his head out the door, looked at us, and grunted. We got up and went into the office. He sat behind the desk and looked at me. I couldn’t read the look. He looked terrible. Not as bad as the bum in the mirror, but bad enough. His tie was open and dangling from the wilted collar of a white shirt. His short white hair was sweat-dampened and flat and he needed a shave. If he had let his beard grow, Phil would have made a hell of a Santa Claus. On the desk in front of him was half a sandwich and a cardboard cup filled with what was probably coffee. I couldn’t tell what was in the sandwich besides wilted lettuce. The only light in the room came from the desk lamp, which bounced a deadly white on his face.

 

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