The Triple Shot Box (Goodey's Last Stand, Not Sleeping Just Dead & Fighting Back): Three Gritty Crime Novels

by Charles Alverson

  “What did you do?” I asked him just to pass the time.

  “I got caught,” he said.

  The turnkey prodded me on down the line to an empty cell and opened the door. As I stepped in, he clanged the door shut behind me.

  “Hey,” I said, turning, “tell Archie that unless…” But he was already halfway down the row and gaining speed. “You’ll be sorry,” I said, but I couldn’t think how.

  It wasn’t much of a cell. Two steel cots bolted to the floor, a chemical toilet in the corner. On each cot was a thin, striped mattress and a folded war-surplus blanket. Mine had been in the Navy. The walls of the cell were solid concrete with close-set bars starting about six feet up and going to the ceiling on each side. High at the back was a barred ventilator grate.

  I sat down and wondered how long it would take Archie to get around to letting me make my phone call. I also wondered who had knifed Chub and whether it had anything to do with the little job I was supposed to be doing for Kolchik. Suppose Kolchik murdered Chub. These heavy thoughts were interrupted by a sound from overhead.

  “Sssssssssss!”

  I looked up and saw a small, black face looking down at me from just where the bars began above the concrete wall. On either side of the face were two, thin-fingered hands, pink on one side, black on the other.

  “Ssssssss!” the face repeated.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “Shhhhhhh!” my sibilant neighbor said. “Shhhhhh! Come up here for a minute, but keep your voice down.”

  I didn’t have much else to do, so I stood up on the other bunk. “What do you want?” I whispered.

  “What are you in for?” He looked like a teenager.

  “Suspicion of murder,” I said. I tried to be matter-of-fact, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Wow! You don’t look like a murderer.”

  “I’m not,” I admitted. “It’s a bum rap. I’ll be out of here in a little while.” I said that to encourage myself as much as anything.

  “You look like a pretty good guy,” my neighbor said. “Will you do me a favor?”

  “I’ll try. What is it?”

  “I want you to tell the jailer something for me. I’ve tried, but he won’t listen to me.”

  “He’s not doing an awful lot of listening to me, either. But I’ll give it a try. What is it?”

  He pushed his pointed little face up until his nose was between the bars and glanced nervously behind him at the other bunk in the cell.

  “I’m a girl,” my neighbor whispered. “I shouldn’t be in this part of the jail. I got picked up for vagrancy, and I wasn’t going to tell them ’cause I thought they’d put me in a cell by myself and I’d get out in the morning. But they put me in here with him—” We both looked at the bunk on the far wall. Beneath a gently rising and falling blanket was what looked like an escaped gorilla. A cruel face was relaxed in dreamless sleep. I’m positive the slack lips covered long fangs.

  “I’m afraid that, once he wakes up, he’ll find out I’m a girl and…”

  I’d have been afraid to have been in that cell when it woke up too.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I whispered. “But what are you doing dressed up like a boy?”

  She shrugged and gave me a sharp-toothed little smile. “It happens,” she said. “You just tell that jailer to get me out of here and do it quick and quiet. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it just as soon as I can, but—”

  Behind her, Mighty Joe Young stirred noisily, threw out a hand the size of a seven-dollar sirloin and brought it back to shield its eyes from the light in the corridor. “Humph,” it growled. “Too fuckin’ noisy in here.”

  My neighbor dropped like a hanged man—woman—and I heard the bedsprings squeaking as she burrowed underneath the bedding.

  I dropped down on my side and sat down again. If I couldn’t get Archie to listen to my story, how could I tell him about my lady neighbor? I didn’t even have a tin cup to rattle on the bars. That problem was solved when the turnkey came padding along the corridor and stopped in front of my cell. He unlocked the door.

  “Come on,” he said. “Archie says you can make that telephone call now.”

  I jumped up and walked out of the cell. As I walked past the next cell, I heard a tiny whisper: “Don’t forget.” King Kong was snoring once again.

  When I came into the turnkey’s office, Archie gestured gracefully toward the telephone on his desk. “There you go, Joe,” he said. “One call.”

  “Thanks loads. You’re a credit to law enforcement.”

  I considered calling the mayor, just to make Archie and his flunky drop their teeth. But I didn’t know his number and thought maybe it wouldn’t be such a cool thing to do. So I dialed a certain number in Mill Valley.

  “Lehman,” said a voice full of mashed potatoes.

  “Goodey,” I said, pausing slightly, “speaking from the city jail, where at present I’m an unwilling guest.”

  “Joe,” Ralph asked, “what the hell are you up to? I’m eating dinner right now, and we’ve got guests.”

  “I’ve got guests, too,” I said. “Two lovely jailers standing here listening to every word I say. And I haven’t had any dinner at all.” I turned my head toward Archie. “What’s for dinner tonight, Arch?”

  “Too late, Joe,” he said. “You’ve missed it.”

  “The man says I’ve missed dinner,” I told Ralph, “so I suggest that you get down here and get me out before I tell everything I know for a ham sandwich.”

  “But Joe,” said Lehman, “what are you in jail for? At least tell me that.”

  “Suspicion of murder,” I said. “Johnny Maher thinks I killed somebody this evening.”

  “Killed somebody?”

  “Yeah. And not who you think. Somebody else.”

  “Where’s Maher right now?”

  “At my place, as far as I know, pinning everything on me. But I wouldn’t be surprised to find him paying me a visit down here in a little while.”

  “Just hold tight, Joe,” Ralph said. “I’ll be right there. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  “I’m not worried,” I said. “I’ve got great faith in you.”

  “One thing,” he said. “Do those jailers know who you’re calling?”

  “I’ll ask.” I put my hand over the speaker. “Say, do you lads have any idea who I’m talking to?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Nope,” I said. “For all they know, you could be the Pope.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll be down to get you out right away, but if you let on that you expect me, I’ll leave you in the cells until you rot.”

  “Right,” I said. “See you around.” I hung up.

  “Okay,” said Archie. “Back you go.” The other turnkey opened the door of the office.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Archie, I’ll do a deal with you. I’ll tell you something you want to know if your man here will go out and get me a sandwich and a cup of coffee. And a candy bar.”

  “What sort of thing I want to know?” Very suspicious.

  “Something you’re going to be very embarrassed about if I don’t tell you.”

  “What is it?” Archie asked. I knew I had him hooked.

  “Oh, no. I want your promise first. Sandwich—make it pastrami and Swiss cheese on an onion roll—black coffee, and a Hershey bar…it’s a good deal, Archie. You better take it.”

  He chewed on it a bit and then said: “It’s a deal. Spill it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I know your word is your bond. You know those two guys in the cell next to mine—the one closest to this office?”

  “Yes. The two spades. What about them?”

  “One of them’s a girl.”

  “A girl? In my jail?”

  “That’s right. Not the caveman, but the little, pointy-chinned one. She told me just before your man brought me in.”

  “Harvey,” Archie said, “get that girl out of there, get her out fast
and get her out quietly. Put Joe back in—and then get him something to eat.”

  “Don’t forget the mustard on the pastrami, Harv,” I said. “Lots of it.”

  I was just licking the melted chocolate from my fingers when Harvey came back to my cell and stuck the key in the lock.

  “Just in time, Harvey,” I said. “I always like a little walk after dinner.”

  “That’s good,” he said, “but you’re not walking where you think. You’re going upstairs. I don’t think that lawyer of yours got the message.”

  “Ah, well,” I said, “he’s only human. Who’m I going to see, then?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  As we passed through the turnkey’s office, Archie was sitting at his green, metal desk. He still looked worried.

  “Did you take care of my girlfriend?” I asked.

  “Son of a bitch, Joe,” he said. “In nineteen years I never had such a thing happen. You can’t tell them apart these days. You just can’t tell.”

  “Serves you right, Archie, for being so nasty to me when I came in here this evening. Take good care of my man Fong. I’ll be back for him in a little while.”

  Archie just looked sicker, and Harvey nudged me to get moving. The fifth floor was dark and empty except for Lehman’s office. Ralph was sitting behind his desk looking half-fed and pissed off. “Thanks, Winston,” he told my guide. “I’ll take over now. You sit down, Goodey.” After Harvey had closed the door behind him, Ralph looked up at me: “Why, Joe, why? I gave you a perfectly simple job, an important job. And what happens?”

  “I didn’t ask for the job,” I pointed out.

  He ignored me. “Somebody,” he said, “somebody you might have had a reasonably good reason to kill, gets knocked off on your doorstep. And now I’ve got to get you out of jail.”

  “Your buddy, Maher, got me put into jail,” I said. “He knows I didn’t kill Seymour Kroll.”

  “Who did then?” Lehman asked.

  “You got me,” I said. “Maybe the same person who knocked off Tina.”

  “But why?”

  “Beats me,” I said. “You have any idea what the mayor was doing early this evening?”

  Lehman looked too weary even to reply to that and was saved the trouble when there was a bang on the door which might have been mistaken for a knock, and Johnny Maher came charging in, looking less than happy.

  “Ralph,” he said, “what the hell—”

  “Sit down, Johnny,” Lehman said, gesturing toward a chair across from mine.

  “But, Ralph—”

  “SIT DOWN!” Ralph shouted, all but blowing Johnny toward the chair, where he settled unhappily but quietly.

  “Now, listen to me, Maher,” Ralph said evenly but menacingly enough. “As of right now you’ve got nothing to do with that murder at Goodey’s place.”

  “Outside Goodey’s place,” I insisted.

  “Shut up, Goodey,” Ralph said. Maher liked that, but he wasn’t so cheerful when Ralph swiveled toward him and continued, “I don’t know how you got the job in the first place.”

  “Nobody else was there to handle it,” said Maher sullenly.

  “Well, there will be, starting right now, if I have to do it myself. As for you, haven’t you got enough to do with the D’Oro stabbing? I think you’re aware that the mayor would like that little matter settled—and soon.”

  Maher looked like a kid caught with unfinished homework.

  “By the way,” Lehman plunged on, “how are you doing on the D’Oro case? Have you anything to report?”

  “Not yet,” said Maher, casting a sideways look at me. “I haven’t been able to locate the Springler woman yet, but I will. There’s not too much to work on, but I’ll come up with the answer. Don’t worry.”

  “I do worry,” said Lehman sharply. “I worry about retiring next year on two thirds of my lousy pay. I worry about you keeping those three stripes you so cleverly won. I hope you haven’t bothered to sew them on, because if you don’t settle this D’Oro case and do it soon, you won’t have them long. Now, get out of here and accomplish something. And stay away from Goodey. He’s bad luck.” Maher fled without a glance at me.

  “Thanks, Ralph,” I said.

  “Don’t thank me,” he said. “I didn’t do anything for you. I was giving it to Maher straight. I want results, and I want them yesterday. But first, how does this latest murder fit in?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t,” I said, “but it certainly makes life more interesting. What time is it? Those guys downstairs have my watch, and I’ve got to call someone in New York and tell him about the demise of Seymour Kroll.”

  “It’s nine-thirty. Who are you going to call?”

  “My father-in-law. But it’s after midnight there. I might wait until morning. Kroll won’t be any deader then.”

  “Well, then,” Lehman said, “if it’s not too much trouble, can we talk about the D’Oro case for a minute?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “After all, I’ve been on the damned thing a whole six hours, including the time I’ve been in your jail. I ought to have it wrapped up by now.” I put a hand toward the inside pocket of my coat. “I have the name of the murderer in this sealed envelope…”

  “Okay, okay,” said Ralph. “But can’t we talk?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But first get on that phone and tell them to let Gabriel Fong go.”

  “Gabriel Fong?”

  “That’s right. F-O-N-G. Rhymes with gong. He’s the guy I sublet my apartment to when you ran me out of town. He’s a Bible student, and we’ll be sharing the place while he takes a course here and mops up all the delinquents in Chinatown. He was with me this evening when Maher…”

  “Say no more.” Lehman reached for the telephone and dialed. “Archie,” he said, “Chief Lehman. Have you got a guy down there called Fong? Well, let him go. Never mind what Maher says. Send him home and tell him we’ll be in touch.”

  “And tell Archie to send my stuff up here,” I said. “They have all my money.”

  “Oh, yes,” Ralph said. “Joe Goodey will be coming back down for his effects. Don’t throw him back in the cells. Okay?” He put down the receiver and swiveled back to me. “Give,” he said.

  “There’s not much to give,” I told him. But, starting from the moment that afternoon when I’d left him in Bruno’s office, I gave him a rundown on my less-than-enlightening inquiries…right up to the time I’d found Chub, and Maher had found me. I even told him about the two Chinese kids.

  At first Ralph didn’t say anything. He just gave a big, wheezy sigh as if the thumb of God were pressing on his chest in an unfriendly way.

  Then he said: “I was right, wasn’t I, Joe? You should have been a private dick all the time. You’re a natural. Here you’ve had a private op’s license a full six hours or so, and you’re working overtime finding dead bodies, disappearing potential murderers and witnesses, bumping heads with detective sergeants all over the place. You’ve got the knack, boy.”

  I tried to look modest, but he didn’t give me much of a chance.

  “But the one thing you haven’t done,” he went on, “is make much visible or even invisible progress toward finding out what we all want to know—who iced Tina D’Oro. Am I right?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “But tell me something. It occurred to me while Mr. Maher was here. By any chance has he read Tina’s diary? I mean beyond the point of learning that our leader was making beautiful music with Tina?”

  “He says not. Maher claims that he was just flicking through idly, not reading, when he spotted Sandy’s name. After that, he put it away and didn’t look in it again.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Not necessarily. Johnny’s too smart for his own good. Time will tell. But right now isn’t there something you should be out doing?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “there probably is.”

  I left him looking like part of the tired office furniture, collected my belongings from the still-sha
ttered Archie, and again found myself standing on the sidewalk outside the police building.

  10

  I thought about heading right back to North Beach, nosing around, asking some questions, zeroing in on whoever did Tina in. I thought about going around and slapping the crap out of Johnny Maher, just for the fun of it. I thought about picking up one end of the Golden Gate Bridge and throwing it in the bay.

  Exhausted, I headed for the friendliest thing in sight—a brightly lit, green telephone booth. I won a little argument with the booth’s folding door and looked at my watch. Just after ten. After one in the morning in New York. Who said Sonny Berkowitz had a right to an undisturbed night’s sleep? I had enough quarters in my pocket to invest in a cheap-rate three-minute call, and I started dialing area code 212.

  The telephone on the other end rang with an annoyed rasp about seven times, and then a voice answered. I knew that voice.

  “It’s me—Joe,” I said. “But don’t hang up. I’m calling Sonny.”

  “Joe,” said my wife in a voice permeated with wariness. “Mom and Dad aren’t here. They’ve gone up to the Connecticut place for the weekend. They still haven’t had a telephone put in up there.” Was this the siren voice that made me rush to New York and go crazy six months before? It was hard to believe. All I could hear was a slightly nasal, vaguely babyish New York voice.

  “You’ll have to give Sonny a message then,” I said. “I’ve got some bad news for him. That investigator he sent out to bug me was killed tonight. Somebody stabbed him just outside the door to the apartment.” I almost said “our apartment.”

  “Killed?” said Pat. “But why? He was such a nice little man. Why would anybody want to kill him?”

  I thought I’d skip the wisecracks. “I haven’t any idea, Pat,” I said. “I found his body only a couple of hours ago, and the police are investigating. They’ll probably find out who did it. As you may have heard somewhere, I’m not a cop anymore.”

  There was a small silence on her end. Pat was probably trying to decide how sympathetic she could be without taking a chance of triggering me. It was a valid question.