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

by Charles Alverson

  “I’d have been a better cop if I’d been less of a friend,” Beddell said, and he knew he was speaking the truth. “And probably a better friend, too.”

  Speranza wasn’t listening. His ears were tuned to inner thoughts in which Roy Beddell didn’t figure at all. “Thank you, Roy, thank you very much,” he said, drawing Beddell toward the door.

  “Baptiste!” the police chief said sharply as they got to the thick door. Speranza raised his eyes to his face, but Beddell saw no recognition there. In vain, he continued: “I have to warn you. Keep out of this. I enforce the law in Parker’s Landing—you don’t. I’ll take care of Caster and Rizzo and the guy who killed Gino. I guarantee you that. If you or any of your people take a hand, I’ll stop you.”

  “Goodbye, Roy,” Speranza said, opening the door.

  “Goodbye, Baptiste,” Beddell said with resignation, walking down the path toward his car.

  Speranza turned back to the large hallway and found Carmen waiting for him at the entrance to the living room. Her face was a worried void.

  “We have bad news. Carmen,” Speranza said gently. “Gino is dead. He was shot to death a short while ago. You had better inform the family.” Almost before she could react, he added, “I’ll tell you all about it later. Now, I must lie down for a while. If I fall asleep, wake me when the girl comes home from school.” He walked past his youngest daughter into the back of the house.

  26

  “I tell you, I don’t have any idea where he went,” Injun said to Rizzo’s unbelieving face. “We were driving out Adelaide to dump the Thunderbird near the river when Ruby got hung up at a red light at Guilford.”

  “You told me that,” said Rizzo.

  “Yeah, well, I was going slow, but he never caught up with me. So I turned back, but I couldn’t find him.”

  “He’s a stupid bastard,” Rizzo said, “and so are you.”

  Carelli flushed and started to say something, but then the bell chimed.

  “Christ!” said Rizzo. “What now?” Easing over to the side window, he lifted the edge of a thick drape and saw Pete shrugging at him in consternation and Roy Beddell standing at his doorstep.

  “It’s Beddell, the Chief of Police,” Rizzo said. “If he followed you here—”

  “Nobody followed me back here,” Injun told him sullenly.

  “I guess I’ll find out about that in a minute,” Rizzo said as the doorbell sounded again. “You fade out into the kitchen while I see what’s on Beddell’s mind.” When Rizzo opened the door, Beddell was just pushing the button again. “Hello, Chief,” Rizzo said.

  “Hello,” said Beddell under careful control. “May I come in?”

  “Sure,” Rizzo said, opening the door wide.

  Beddell followed Rizzo into the anonymous living room. “Can I get you a drink?” Rizzo asked.

  “No,” Beddell said. “This is not a social call.”

  “No?” Rizzo said coolly. “Well, sit down anyway.” Rizzo seated himself in a chair and gestured Beddell to the green-tufted sofa. “Now, what can I do for you today, Chief?”

  “You can lay off Harry Caster,” Beddell said, “and you can do it starting right now.”

  “Chief—” Rizzo began, but Beddell rode over his words.

  “Let’s not kid each other, Rizzo,” he said. “It’s no secret that you’re trying to cut in on Caster’s bar. I’m surprised that it’s not in the goddamned newspapers.”

  Rizzo said nothing. He sat looking at Beddell with polite interest, but Beddell knew there was something working behind those flat eyes.

  “It’s not going to work,” Beddell said. “There’s a lot more involved now than a simple muscle job. You ought to have realized that after what happened to Gino this morning.”

  “Gino?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Rizzo,” Beddell said wearily. “Just don’t bother. I’ve just told Baptiste Speranza that his boy was cut down and I don’t need any more hassle.” Beddell looked Rizzo hard in the eye. “And neither do you. You think you’ve got problems with the muscle Caster has hired. Wait’ll you see what you’ve got when Speranza finds out that you put Gino in a position to get snuffed. He’s sure to blame you.”

  “Speranza’s a joke,” Rizzo said. All pretense had gone out of his voice. “And you’re wasting my time.”

  “I’m not going to waste much more of it, Rizzo, or my own. Gino Speranza was with a couple of punks named Bonino and Carelli when he was killed. Have you seen either of them today?”

  “I never heard of them.”

  “I’ll bet,” Beddell said. “Do you mind if I look around the house?” Out in the hallway, her ear pressed to the living room door, Angie Rizzo started nervously, but she forced herself to stay at the door, listening. She had never eavesdropped on Carlo before. But then, the Chief of Police had never come to the house before, and Angie felt she had to put some order to the whirl of fears and suspicions in her mind—even if it had to be this way. Now she knew at least part of the situation, and she felt better.

  “Not at all, Chief,” Rizzo said. Angie’s hands automatically pushed her away from the door, but she relaxed when her husband’s voice continued, “If you’ve got a search warrant in your pocket.”

  “I can get one,” Beddell said, getting up. Out in the hall the telephone began to ring. Then it stopped, and a few moments later, the door to the hallway cracked slightly and Angie Rizzo put her head into the room.

  “Carlo,” she said shyly, not looking at Beddell, “it’s for you.”

  “Thank you, Angie,” Rizzo said. His wife started to close the door, but Rizzo stopped her. “No, darling, don’t go. I want you to meet someone.” He held out his hand, and Angie obediently came forward to meet it. Rizzo wheeled, holding her hand.

  “Chief,” he said as coolly as if they were at a party, “you haven’t met my wife, Angela, have you? Angie, this is Roy Beddell, the Chief of Police.”

  “Hello,” said Angie timidly.

  “Angie,” Rizzo said, “you keep our guest company while I answer the telephone. I’ll be right back.” He walked through the hall door and closed it behind him. Once he was in the hallway, the polite look left Rizzo’s face. He picked up the telephone. “Hello,” he said impatiently, “this is Charlie Rice.”

  “Mr. Rice,” said an excited voice, “it’s me. Ruby.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “In Manhattan. Listen, Mr. Rice—”

  “No, you listen, Bonino,” Rizzo said. “You’re crazy. I sent you out to dump a car, and you—”

  “But wait,” Ruby started again, “I’ve found Caster. I saw him in a car in Parker’s Landing and followed him. I didn’t have time to tell anybody, and this is the first chance I’ve had to telephone. I didn’t want to lose him, so I—”

  “Okay, shut up,” Rizzo snapped. “Where are you right now?”

  “On the East Side, Lexington and Sixty-sixth. Caster put his car in a garage, and they’re in a restaurant eating. I can see the door from this phone booth.”

  “They?” Rizzo asked.

  “Caster and some girl. Long black hair. She was with him at the hospital last night. I think she might be related to that Carradino character.”

  “How long have they been in the restaurant?”

  “Maybe five minutes. I saw they were going in to eat and jumped over here to call you. What do you want me to do?”

  Rizzo lowered the receiver to his side and thought for a moment.

  “Mr. Rice,” he heard Ruby’s voice thin and metallic.

  “I’m here. You stay with Caster wherever he goes and call me whenever he stops for even five minutes.”

  “Can I get some lunch? I haven’t had any yet.”

  “Sure,” said Rizzo, “if you can keep an eye on Caster at the same time. If you lose him, Bonino, you’ll be sorry.”

  “I won’t lose him.”

  “Don’t.” Rizzo put the telephone down.

  When Rizzo returned to the living room,
Beddell noticed that his confidence seemed deeper and less assumed. Something in that telephone call cheered him up, Beddell thought.

  “Thank you, dear,” Rizzo said, dismissing his wife.

  Obediently, Angie got up and said goodbye to Beddell. “Goodbye, Mrs. Rice,” Beddell said. “I hope Bobby is feeling better soon.”

  “Thank you,” said Angie and left the room. Beddell noticed Rizzo’s puzzled expression.

  “Your son Bobby,” Beddell said. “Your wife tells me he’s not feeling well enough to play in the football game tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Rizzo said. “It’s nothing serious. You know how teenagers are.”

  Beddell nodded.

  “Now, what were we talking about?” Rizzo asked briskly. “Oh, yes, Gino Speranza. It’s a shame about him. Gino was a nice boy. Not very bright, but always polite to me. I certainly hope you catch the guy that killed him, and I won’t keep you if you want to get back on the job.”

  Beddell didn’t respond. There was no point in arresting Rizzo yet. His lawyer would have him out in an hour.

  “I will, Rizzo,” Beddell said finally. “I’ll get whoever shot Gino. But I’ll tell you something. You’re riding for a heavy fall. And when it comes, I’m just going to mark another cheap punk off my list.” Rizzo stiffened, then relaxed and smiled.

  “Thanks for dropping by, Chief,” he said. “Any time you’re in the neighborhood.”

  By this time Beddell was nearly in the hallway. Rizzo followed the policeman and watched the front door close behind him. Through the little window, he watched Beddell get in his car and drive away.

  Rizzo found Injun sitting in the back kitchen eating a big dish of lasagna. “I’ve got a job for you,” he told him.

  “I’m eating,” Carelli protested.

  “Hurry it up,” Rizzo said. “As soon as Ruby calls again, I want you to go someplace.”

  “Ruby called?” Injun asked through a mouthful. “Where is that jerk?”

  “Manhattan. That jerk has picked up Harry Caster, and when Caster comes to a stop, I’ve got work for you to do.”

  * * *

  It was a long evening of waiting for Rizzo and Injun. Ruby was just finishing a sandwich he’d bought at a delicatessen on Lexington Avenue when Harry and Sandra came out of the restaurant.

  “Where are we going now?” Sandra asked.

  “Do you want to meet my big shot brother with the razor-cut hair and the sexy secretary?”

  “No.”

  “Then that’s where we’ll go,” Harry said, taking her hand. “You’ll love him.”

  “I’ll hate him,” Sandra said, squeezing Harry’s stubby fingers.

  At the discreet building, Harry led Sandra through the massive doors and confronted the gray-haired receptionist for the second time that week. She showed no sign that she recognized him. To her polite query, Harry said: “Harry Caster to see Mr. Caster.” He felt a bit foolish still holding Sandra’s hand.

  “I’m afraid no one is in at the moment, sir,” the receptionist said. “But we’re expecting Mr. Caster this evening. May he telephone you some place?”

  “No,” said Harry, “I don’t know where I’ll be. Just tell him I was here and that I’ll call him later.”

  Ruby was in a booth on the far side of Madison and Sixty-Sixth, banging on the telephone to get a dial tone, when he saw Harry and Sandra emerge from the building. To his dismay, they turned and started walking directly toward him. They were coming to the telephone booth. As quickly as he could, without actually running. Ruby got out of the booth and started walking west on Sixty-Sixth. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder.

  Harry dialed the last number Hoerner had given him, but there was no answer. He listened to the ringing for a long time and then hung up.

  “No luck,” he told Sandra. “Nobody’s home today.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know. Central Park is only a couple of blocks away. Do you like the park?”

  “I heard it was full of muggers.”

  “Come on, then,” Harry said, grabbing her hand. “I’ll introduce you to some very nice muggers I know.”

  At Fifth Avenue, Ruby turned away from a magazine rack and began to follow Harry and Sandra toward the park.

  “Did you have a nice read?” the newsdealer asked him, but Ruby didn’t hear.

  27

  Baptiste Speranza opened his eyes and knew that Carmen had disobeyed him. It was nearly dark outside, and faintly he heard the new electric carillon of St. Peter in Chains. In vain he listened for the tiny pauses Fred Mapes, the old carillon player, used to make between phrases. Some said the pauses had been due to alcoholic uncertainty, but Speranza didn’t care. They were human; the new machine ground out the sacred music like so much sausage meat.

  It was a tiny room Speranza slept in, and sometimes at night he felt like a monk looking at the bare, brown walls. A low, rough-cut Spanish chest in the corner helped to further the illusion. Speranza had lived in this room for over three years now, since shortly after his wife, Rosa, died. In another time and another world, it had been a maid’s room. Gradually, unconsciously, Speranza had made it his, first by napping there. Then he’d stopped climbing the stairs to the room that had been his and his wife’s.

  Most of his belongings were still in the big bedroom. The inhabited chests and closets like costumes for a play that would never reopen. Speranza had often urged Carmen to take the room, but it remained empty, dusted daily, cleaned once a week like the rest of the house.

  Gino is dead.

  The thought came back into his head, and Speranza moved his lips with the words as children do when they read. Dead like Rosa and most of the people he had known. Speranza had been thinking about death a lot lately, but for himself, not for Gino. For Gino, death had been as unthinkable as for the little one. But there it was: Gino was dead. Like so many things in his life these days, that was final, unchangeable. But the fact lay on his chest like a stone; he hadn’t yet learned to wear it.

  Speranza knew they’d be waiting for him in the living room, as many of the family as could be hastily gathered. He tried to rouse himself to face them. The sooner he did, the sooner they’d leave him alone. But the stone was heavy, and his bones were heavy, and the flesh on them seemed to weigh him down more than ever. Finally, he pushed his legs over the side of the hard, narrow bed and felt them strike the floor like two heavy sticks.

  The noise in the big living room was an emotional buzzing of bees when Speranza opened the door, and for a time none of them noticed him. He’d always known that Rosalie, the oldest, would run to fat, and she had. Ridges of flesh writhed beneath an exclusive tweed suit as she told her little sister Doris for the tenth time: “I just can’t believe it, Dor; I just can’t believe it.”

  Doris dutifully patted the great white hand that had been forced upon her and wondered how much the new emerald ring had cost. “We’re all mortal,” she said. “We’re only mortal, Rose. But he was so young, so young.”

  In the corner near the big window looking out on Speranza’s garden, the sons-in-law were talking in low, fervent tones about the left knee of the New York Jets’ quarterback.

  “It’s like a matchstick,” Lou Altomare, Doris’s penny-pinching husband, was saying. “It’ll snap like this.” He twisted an extended forefinger until it popped loudly.

  “Yeah, but,” Bruno Fisher, once Frischetti, said, “don’t forget that it’s the arm that counts.” He grabbed his biceps and gave it a shake. “He don’t throw with his knee.”

  On a window seat at the far end of the room, a slim blonde woman not quite thirty years old sat close to Carmen Speranza, talking intently in a voice that couldn’t be heard three feet away. Her clean features claimed a perfection for which a professor of plastic surgery at Stanford University felt a warm glow of accomplishment. In the field, it was quietly gaining a reputation as “Ledbetter’s Nose,” but it was Dominic Speranza
’s checkbook that had made it possible.

  “I’m sorry Dom isn’t here,” Delia Speranza was telling Carmen. “I called the Dorado Beach Hotel and left the number here for him to call when he gets back to the hotel.”

  Sitting on the thick carpet in a corner, two grandsons of prep-school age discussed the curious demise of Uncle Gino in cool accents they hadn’t learned at home. From the garden came the voices of Kathy and the younger grandchildren.

  Someone saw Speranza standing in the doorway and sounded the alarm. The family surged toward him, a wall of humanity mouthing various degrees of sympathy. All except Delia. She remained poised in front of the window seat. But her calm, gray, plain-girl’s eyes read Speranza’s face with accuracy and compassion.

  The family clung to Speranza, pulling him into the room, but Carmen soon dropped back. She saw in his face a tinge of annoyance at the tumult and probably at being allowed to sleep so long. But all else was concealed behind a mask which frightened her more than anger or grief would have. Then Carmen slipped away to the kitchen. The eating would begin soon. Whether gathering in sorrow or joy, the Speranza family would have to eat.

  In the midst of the confusion, the doorbell rang. With carefully learned grace, Delia walked to the front hallway to answer it. She knew who it would be.

  “Hello, Abe,” she said as she opened the door.

  Abe Montara deserved the nickname—the snake—which wasn’t as unknown to him as many thought. There was something reptilian in his small, bright eyes, in his slim, spring-like body, in his smooth cap of dead-black hair which never seemed to need cutting.

  He inspired fear.

  Of all the non-family minions, only Abe would come today. The telegrams from friends and foes had already begun to pour in, but this was a family-only gathering. Abe was as close as he could be without being a Speranza, closer than the in-laws. His hooded eyes showed no grief at the death of Gino Speranza.

  “Mrs. Speranza,” he said as he stepped into the front hall.

  Delia and Montara knew where they stood with each other. He knew that at a word she would leave Dom Speranza and come to him. She knew the word would never be spoken. They both saw the acid humor in the situation.