Sweet Wild Wench

by William Campbell Gault

  “I have to work with thieves and fools and politicians and pimps and religious fanatics. I have to work with people and that takes a strong stomach.”

  “Don’t get all steamed up now.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I smiled at her. “Where are you going tonight?”

  “Dining and dancing,” she said. “Don’t be nosy.”

  “And drinking, too, I’ll bet,” I said. “And you know when you drink, you get — tolerant, kind of. You know — I mean — ”

  She looked at me blandly. “Lunch is ready. Are you?”

  Women, women, women. We ate silently for minutes. I thought about Tackett and about Eve. And about the superior Donald Major, who didn’t look a damned bit like Tab Hunter. He looked old enough to be Tab’s father.

  “Quit mumbling,” Adele said. “What are you mumbling about?”

  Before I could answer, the phone rang and Adele picked up the kitchen extension and it was Deke calling me.

  He said, “Tackett phoned me. He tried to get you at home and at your office. He was afraid to call the Department.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He wouldn’t say. He’s talked to some bartender, evidently, and the bartender told him you’d said you were Tackett’s alibi. But he says he won’t give himself up and be railroaded.”

  “Will he meet me somewhere?”

  “When he finds a place he thinks is safe, and if he’s guaranteed immunity.”

  “Nobody can guarantee him that.”

  “Well, he’ll try to phone either one of us. You had better decide what you can guarantee him.”

  “Okay, Deke. Thanks.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Give my love to Adele.”

  I immediately phoned Griffin.

  “Maybe you’d better stay home and wait for his call,” he suggested.

  “Do you want to tap the wire?” I asked.

  “No. It’s a practice I consider unethical, Joe. You phone Kafke and tell him about this situation and then stay home.”

  I didn’t get Kafke, but I got his partner and I told him about Tackett’s message.

  He took it as matter-of-factly as a report of a lost dog. It seemed like important news to me and I was a little miffed by his lack of interest. I should have realized he was playing it cute, looking for ink.

  I thanked Adele for the lunch and kissed her on the forehead in a forgiving way and went home. There I opened a big bottle of beer and turned on the radio to a platter program and lay on the studio couch, waiting.

  The call came around four o’clock. “Puma? Tackett. What can you promise me?”

  “Nothing like immunity. You know that. I can promise you won’t be railroaded or manhandled. You sound scared. If you’re innocent, what’s scaring you?”

  “Deutscher. I figured I was working with him but he never works with anybody, does he?”

  “That’s his rep. But it shouldn’t scare you. The District Attorney will see that you get all the justice due you, Clyde. Do you know who killed Jeremiah Adams?”

  “No. But I’ve some information you don’t have that might help you learn who killed him.”

  “Were you there at the cult last night?”

  “I was there. I wanted to talk to Adams. I looked in and saw him like that and I meant to go to a phone and call the police. But I didn’t want to do it from his office, not with him on the floor there. So I went back to the car and then I saw that woman, so I beat it.”

  His voice ended abruptly and dimly I heard the sound of a siren coming over the wire.

  “You bastard!” he said.

  “Don’t get jumpy. It’s probably got nothing to do with you. I’m no double-crosser, Clyde.”

  The sound of the siren grew louder and then he said, “You son-of-a-bitch,” and the line went dead.

  I hung up, steaming. Kafke or his partner had crossed me. This is what they considered “working together.” So they lived on printer’s ink and they were hungry. That still didn’t excuse this.

  I phoned Homicide and asked for Sergeant Kafke. He was out on a call, and what could they do for me?

  “You can tell me the address of the call,” I said.

  He got evasive then, and I asked to speak with Captain MacDarrel.

  A pompous man, a political schemer, this Captain MacDarrel. I told him what had happened.

  He said solemnly, “We don’t bargain with murder suspects, Mr. Puma.”

  “That’s double-talk,” I said. “I worked with Kafke in good faith. He violated that faith. I want to know where Tackett phoned from so I can go down to see that Kafke doesn’t botch it up any more than he already has.”

  “You’re being highhanded, Mr. Puma.”

  “I’m being realistic, Captain.”

  A silence from him and I said, “This violates the spirit of an agreement between the mayor, the District Attorney and your Chief. Any inter-department friction that might result is going to be your responsibility, Captain.”

  I hung up on that. And then I had a hunch and I looked up the number of that bar near Tackett’s garage apartment. I called it.

  And Kafke’s partner answered the phone. I said, “This is Puma. Why the double-cross?”

  “You’d have to ask Sergeant Kafke about that, Mr. Puma.”

  “Well, put him on.”

  “He’s busy right now.”

  “Did you get Tackett?”

  “No, but we will. We’ve got the neighborhood adequately covered.”

  I hung up. I phoned Griffin but he wasn’t in his office. I told one of his assistants the story of the double-cross and asked him to relay the information as soon as Griffin was available. And I asked him to report the entire incident to the Chief of Police.

  Then I headed for Venice. My phone rang as I was going out, but I had a feeling it was Captain MacDarrel so I didn’t answer it.

  By the time I got to the bar, no police officers were around. Some rugged customers were at a corner table, drinking beer with a couple of factory girls, but nobody stood at the bar.

  Behind it, my bald and natty friend looked at me with open hostility.

  “They double-crossed me,” I explained. “And they double-crossed Tackett, but I had nothing to do with it.”

  “What’s your order?”

  “Bourbon and water.” I paused, and then made my guess. “You fooled them, though, didn’t you?”

  He was reaching for the bottle, but he stopped to stare at me. Doubt came to his eyes.

  I returned his stare. And from behind one of the rugged customers said, “That peeper giving you trouble, Scotty?”

  The redness moved into my mind, flooding and receding, flooding and receding. I remembered Deke’s warning about losing my temper, but the frustrations of the past days had been maddening. I put both hands on the bar, stared at Scotty. I didn’t turn around.

  “If he is,” the voice continued, “say the word, and we’ll throw him off the pier.”

  The redness flooded and I turned slowly. I kept my voice calm. “This is private business, mister. Please don’t interfere.”

  The man who had done the talking was the tallest of the three at the table, and he was a lot of man. He stood up, and I saw how his blue work shirt stretched across his barrel chest, and I saw the labor-ridged muscles in his arm.

  He said, “Stupid playboy, you don’t want any trouble with me.”

  “I don’t want any trouble with anybody,” I admitted, “but I am warning you now that if you have trouble with me, you’ll never be quite the same man again. Believe me. Now I’m here on official business from the District Attorney’s office and I’m asking you to be quiet.”

  One of the girls reached up to pull at his arm, but he shook her grasp off roughly. He looked at me, at his two shorter but equally muscular partners and he smiled at them and winked.

  He came around the table and over toward me.

  Scotty said quickly, “No roughhouse in here, Lars. I’m warning you. I don’t stand for no
roughhouse.”

  He paused to smile at Scotty. “We won’t break any furniture. We won’t even raise any dust. This will be neat and quick.” He kept coming.

  And his two buddies were getting up now. And I hadn’t worn my gun. It was probably my duty to give him another official warning, but I didn’t think it would do any good. And I really didn’t want to at the moment. This was something I needed, something to feed my bruised soul.

  One of his partners went over to snap the night latch on the door and Scotty called some warning, but I didn’t get it.

  For the big boy had swung. His hands moved faster than I’d expected, and the right he threw caught me in the neck and sent me sliding along the bar. And one of his buddies was waiting for me there.

  He swung, I ducked, and his right hand smashed into the solid mahogany of the old-fashioned bar. He gasped and lifted the battered hand in agony and I spread his nose for him with a crushing left.

  And now the big boy was on me, reaching for a grip at my throat. I let him have his grip. And when he pulled me toward him, I cooperated by letting my head come forward. He swung his other hand at me then, but my head was no longer there. It continued on its route until it crashed the middle of his face.

  He bellowed and took a backward step and I put a real fine hook into his beer-softened belly. He gasped and gulped — and his untouched partner clipped me with a right hand high on the side of the head.

  One of the girls was screaming now, and Scotty was shouting for us to quit. I gave my attention to the unblemished partner. I moved to the left and he circled. I moved to the right, back to the left, and caught him zigging on the zag.

  I really tagged that bastard. He went up before he went back and when he went back, he kept going. He took one table along with him all the way to the far wall, where it crashed against the table where the girls were still sitting.

  That left two of them, the big boy with a bleeding mouth and his partner with a badly smashed nose. I’ll hand it to them, they didn’t quit.

  How were they to know I had gone through those frustrating days? How could they know one of my favorite girls had a date with a smooth jerk who looked like Tab Hunter’s father? They came in. I must record their courage.

  I took the shorter one first, warming myself on him. I stacked him up against the wall with a straight left and then threw the right hand for his mouth.

  One of his teeth cracked off clean and the back of his head cracked the plaster of the wall. He went down with his eyes closed, out before he reached the floor.

  And now the big boy was left, standing near the bar, this big-mouth named Lars. The girls were quiet and Scotty made no sound, and Lars slid along the bar, a little less confident than he had been only seconds ago.

  Don’t get me wrong; he wasn’t quitting. He was maneuvering, working over to where he could use a chair, if necessary. That was all right with me. I grew up fighting with auxiliary weapons.

  He moved away from the bar now, standing next to a table, and I kept to his left because the table was to his right, and when he picked up the chair, he would swing it to his left with his right hand.

  Get the picture?

  He would swing his right hand across his body with the chair in it, and if I stepped to his right, I would be clear of the chair and should get a shot at his jaw. My animosities were expiated; I no longer had any burning desire to mark him up.

  It worked exactly the way I planned it. The chair came sliding along and his right arm was in front of his body when I brought over the finisher.

  It was a bulls-eye. He went down with a crash, the chair sliding over to the bar.

  And the dapper little bartender’s voice was right behind me now, and he said, “And now you can fight me, you bully.”

  And I turned with a smile, and the gutty little bastard warmed my heart with his courage. Because there he was, standing on a chair, his blue eyes blazing and his chin almost level with mine, because of the chair.

  All this I saw and admired. All this I saw, but one thing I overlooked, perhaps because of the sweat in my eyes. I had had a rough workout.

  The thing I overlooked was important, too, and I saw it too late. It was the baseball bat Scotty held in his hands.

  The night came in with thunder and some bells.

  17

  I CAME TO on a lumpy army cot in a dimly lighted room. Through the glass half of the door to my right, I could see it was getting dark outside. Empty beer and beverage cases were stacked against the opposite wall and a calendar next to the door showed me a December twelve years old, adorned with a picture of a girl about twice that with unbelievable mammaries.

  I could hear a jukebox in the front room, and I rose slowly on the cot while pain skyrocketed through my brain. I reached up to feel a lump the size of a lemon on top of my head.

  That miserable little bastard. I couldn’t hate him. But why, after the festivities were over and peace had been restored? Maybe he had needed it for his ego.

  I sat up and put my feet on the floor and massaged the back of my neck. Then another door, the one from the bar, opened and Scotty came hesitantly into the dim light.

  “You mad?” he asked me.

  “I’m not happy, Scotty. The fight was over.”

  “I know,” he admitted. “But I was all worked up. I won’t charge you for cracking the plaster with that guy’s head.”

  “You’ll do better than that, Scotty,” I said sternly. “You’ll start leveling with me.”

  He held out both hands, palms up. “What can I tell you? I leveled.”

  “Don’t con me,” I said gruffly. “Tackett didn’t phone me from here. You did.”

  He stared at me.

  “I recognized your voice,” I lied. “No wonder the cops couldn’t find Tackett. You phoned, Scotty. Tackett briefed you and you put the call through in his name.”

  He looked at me doubtfully. “I’m in trouble, huh?”

  “If you don’t level, you are.”

  He stared some more and then said, “Wait — ” He turned and went back to the bar.

  When he came back again, he had an ice pack in one hand and a slug of whisky in the other. He put the ice pack tenderly on my noggin and handed me the drink. “On the house,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He smiled. “I’ll bet that Lars won’t give me any more trouble. The fights he’s started in here — man, you creamed him, didn’t you?”

  “It was nothing,” I said. “He’s no tough guy.” I smiled. “Look, Scotty, I’m not out to give you trouble. I’ve made some doubtful C-notes, myself.”

  “C-note?” He snorted. “Twenty bucks he promised me, and all he gave me was this sheet full of the information I’d need. I don’t want no trouble with the law, Mr. Puma.”

  “You won’t have any. Keep talking.”

  “Well, there isn’t much. Tackett’s scared as hell of some guy named Deutscher, like I told you. He says Deutscher is trying to cross him. Knowing Clyde, I figure that could work either way.”

  “Does he know who the killer is?”

  “He thinks so. Some dame, some rich dame that lusted for this Adams.”

  “Eve Deering?”

  He frowned. “Something like that. I didn’t really catch the name.” He took a deep breath. “You all right? Can you navigate?”

  “I’m all right. One more question. Where’s Tackett now?”

  He lifted a hand. “I swear to you I got no idea.”

  I believed him. From the wall phone in the barroom, I phoned Deutscher’s office and his home, but nobody answered at either place.

  I phoned the Malibu hideaway and the nurse told me Eve was awake and taking nourishment.

  “She would like to see you, Mr. Puma.”

  “I’ll be there in about an hour,” I promised.

  I ate at a drive-in on the way, a mammoth operation overlooking the water on the Coast Highway. The six o’clock traffic was solid in all the lanes and the odor from th
eir tailpipes fouled the evening air.

  I was bruised and bushed, dragged down by my cold, sick of people and tired of the job. I had some soup and a barbecued beef sandwich and then sat with my tea and cigarette feeling sorry for myself.

  It was dark by the time I got to the Malibu roost. The nurse opened the door and told me Eve was resting in the living room.

  She was propped with pillows on a circular sofa. She was wearing a plain blue flannel robe and no make-up. Her golden hair was drawn severely to a knot atop her head. She looked washed and weary.

  And beautiful. This was a true beauty, needing neither make-up, an intricate coiffure nor Hattie Carnegie to bolster her allure.

  She looked at me openly and said, “I understand I tried to kill you.”

  “You gave me a few nervous moments,” I admitted. I went over to a chair.

  “Sit here,” she said, and patted the end of the sofa.

  I went over to sit at her feet.

  “I’m frightened,” she said. “I’m worried.”

  “It’s about time. Two men have died.” I paused. “Is there anything special you want to tell me now?”

  She stiffened slightly. “Are you suggesting I’ve been lying to you?”

  “I know one lie you told me. About your father’s heart condition.”

  She stared at me doubtfully. “That wasn’t a lie. He told me that. Do you mean you’ve learned it isn’t true?”

  “I’ve learned it isn’t true.”

  She took a deep breath. “Another of his weapons. I can’t hate him. He has to have somebody or something. He hasn’t much to love, as you’ve probably noticed.”

  I nodded.

  She picked at some lint on the blue flannel robe. “Have the police located this hotel clerk, this Mr. Tackett?”

  “No. He tried to get in touch with me, but the police tapped my phone line and messed everything up. So he’s still in hiding.”

  “Do you think he’s guilty? Is that why he’s hiding?”

  “He claims he’s afraid of Deutscher. Deutscher has a certain amount of influence with the Police Department and Tackett has a feeling he’s due to be railroaded. I hope to hell he comes out of hiding before Deutscher gets to him.”

  She picked at the lint again. “Joe, believe in me. I know you don’t. I can sense it.”