Dead Pigeon

by William Campbell Gault

  “But,” he added, “I have reasons for not informing the police. It might hurt some innocent people, one of whom is one of my clients.”

  “I see. Are you still with Hutton?”

  “No. I opened my own office six years ago.”

  I told him about my dinner date with Lars and suggested, “Why don’t you come over now. You can tell me what you suspect. And if you decide to stay for dinner we—”

  “I won’t be staying for dinner,” he interrupted. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. My office isn’t far from the hotel.”

  He knocked on the door fifteen minutes later, still looking doubtful.

  “Should I order up a couple of drinks?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m in AA, like Mike was. He must have been in and out a dozen times. He was out when Hutton had to fire him, the damned fool!”

  I nodded. “Booze and broads, those were Mike’s failings. I suppose there are worse.”

  “I guess.” He went over to sit in a chair near the window. “That man who delivered the eulogy is a client of mine. I don’t know what his original name was. He now calls himself Turhan Bay.”

  “Like the old movie actor, Turhan Bey?”

  “B-a-y, not B-e-y. Maybe that’s where he got it. Anyway, he runs a cult called Inner Peace and is doing very well financially. What his congregation doesn’t know and wouldn’t tolerate, he is also sharing bed and board with a former hooker named Crystal Lane. Do you remember her?”

  “Yes. She was one of Mike’s girlfriends. But she wasn’t a hooker then, so far as I know.”

  He shrugged. “So far as we both know.” He took a deep breath and stared at the floor.

  He looked at me. “Add it up. Maybe Mike knew earlier, or later learned about Crystal. And wouldn’t Turhan’s followers desert the flock if they learned? Wouldn’t Mike have strong grounds for a blackmail threat?”

  I shook my head. “Not Mike. Never. No!”

  “You didn’t know him, Brock, in the last few years. He was into drugs then—and they cost money.”

  “That I didn’t know.”

  “Do you see my dilemma?” he asked. “If I give this to the police, Turhan could find out and I’d lose a million-dollar account.” His smile was dim. “I may worship in the temple of Mammon, but I still like to think of myself as a responsible citizen. Whatever your current rates are, I’d be glad to pay them.”

  “I no longer work for pay,” I said. “Mike was my friend.”

  “Be tactful now, Brock, if you decide to investigate.”

  “Of course. Tact is my middle name.”

  He smiled. “What a change!”

  On that cynical note, he left. An effing broker is what Heinie had called him. Nolan might be one of the better ones.

  Suppositions, suppositions, facts not in evidence, as the defense attorneys love to declaim. But it was an avenue of inquiry, the bread and butter of private eyes.

  I had left San Valdesto very early this morning to avoid the freeway traffic; I was bushed. It was still two hours short of dinnertime. I stretched out on the bed for a nap.

  An hour later I woke up, wet with sweat. I had dreamed of my father again. He had died when I was a kid, killed by a hoodlum, a man who was out on probation for the fourth time.

  I took a long warm shower and then a cool one. I dressed and read the sports and business sections of the Times. Then I went down to the lobby to wait for Lars.

  He looked kind of spiffy when he showed. He was even wearing a tie, one of those William Tell bow ties that columnist George Will favors.

  “You put on weight, huh?” was his opening remark.

  “Almost two pounds since my playing days,” I admitted. “Anything new since last we talked?”

  He shook his head. “Mike is not exactly a priority item at the Department right now.”

  “And with you?”

  “Let’s have a drink,” he said.

  Over our drinks, he told me, “You left town before Mike went the last ugly mile. So it’s possible that you’re more sold on him than I am. You probably didn’t know that he wound up on drugs.”

  “Lars, this town is loaded with highly admired and influential citizens who sniff cocaine at all their fancy parties.”

  “Hell, yes! But do they also sell it?”

  “I don’t know. Did Mike?”

  He shrugged. “How else can a poor man support his habit if he doesn’t deal or steal?”

  Facts not in evidence again. I said, “Pretend you’re not a cop. Pretend you really care about what happens to victims. Are you telling me to forget what a close friend to both of us Mike was?”

  He glowered at me. “God damn you, I liked the guy! But every day we deal with drunks, child molesters, rapists, con men, murderers, burglars, and robbers. And you sit up there in San Valdesto living high off the hog on your inheritance.”

  “Guilty,” I said, and smiled at him. “Another drink?”

  He sighed and smiled back at me. “You bastard! I’ll have another double. I apologize for the crack about your money. If anybody deserves it, you do.”

  It went better after that. We traveled down memory lane, recounting old friends and enemies—and where were they all today?

  I didn’t mention what Nolan had told me. Maybe later … He promised to keep me informed on the progress (if any) on Mike’s murder investigation but repeated that it was not a high priority item to the SMPD.

  Then he went home to his woman of the month and I went up to my lonely bed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THERE WAS A FAINT tinge of smog in the room when I awoke in the morning. The worst of it, according to the bedside radio, was a second-stage alert in the San Fernando Valley. Santa Monica and Venice, where I planned to prowl this morning, were relatively clear.

  I had checked the phone book last night and learned that the cult called Inner Peace was in Venice. That was also where Denny’s Tavern was, a knowledgeable source of information for any chicanery that was going on in the area.

  The tavern was in an old brick building of three floors, the second and third floors inhabited by Denny and his wife.

  Most bars don’t open early in the morning. But Denny had another source of income, booking horse bets. He got the blue-collar trade, early-morning bettors on their way to work.

  He had been a jockey at one time, but ridden too many horses that finished out of the money. The way he had figured it, there had to be a better way to make a living from the nags.

  He smiled as I walked in. “Last time I saw you some guy was trying to ace you. He must have hit a rock, huh?”

  That was the nickname my teammates had given me, Brock the Rock. Good beer and bad puns, that’s Denny.

  I made no comment.

  “Beer?” he asked. “I now serve Einlicher. On tap!”

  I shook my head. “Too early. Maybe some coffee?”

  “Instant?”

  “Is that all you have?”

  He nodded.

  “Then forget it. I came to town for Mike Gregory’s funeral. Do you remember him?”

  “Hell, yes. He died owing me a thirty-eight-dollar tab. I planned to go to his funeral yesterday, but my wife was ailing and I had to watch the store.”

  I put two twenties on the bar. “Now he doesn’t owe you.”

  He shook his head. “Forget it.”

  “Denny,” I said, “you take this money or I’ll tell the law how you once threw a race at Hollywood Park.”

  He smiled. “You wouldn’t and we both know it. But as long as you are now a rich man—” He picked up the twenties and handed me two singles.

  “Did Mike come here often?”

  “He did. He spent a lot more than the thirty-eight dollars in this place. Rich one day and poor the next, that was Mike.”

  “Do you mean lately?”

  “Not lately, no. Is that why you’re still in town? You playing cops and robbers again?”

  “If I have to. Do you know a man nam
ed Turhan Bay?”

  “The name I know, the man I don’t. A weirdo, right?”

  “I guess. How about a woman named Crystal Lane?”

  He shook his head.

  “There is a rumor floating around that Mike might have been involved in selling drugs. Did you hear it?”

  “Hell, no! Buying, maybe. But selling? Where would he get the money?”

  “Denny, if he could afford to buy, he must have got the money somewhere. A lot of addicts are peddlers. They need to sell in order to support their habit.”

  “Right. The way I always felt about Mike, he was his own worst enemy. But I find it hard to believe that he’d sink low enough to scout for new victims for the dealers.”

  That was my gut feeling, too. But it was possible that he might have only switched long-term addicts to a new cheaper source. That could be rationalized as an act of mercy. Mike, like all losers, was prone to rationalization.

  “Denny,” I said, “nobody knows this neighborhood as well as you do. You would be doing me a big favor if you would find out all you can about Turhan Bay.”

  “I’ll ask around.” He smiled. “At least thirty-eight dollars’ worth. Play it cool now, Brock. Don’t go off half cocked.”

  “I won’t.”

  I was halfway to the door when he asked, “How about that kook who was out to get you?”

  “He’s dead,” I said.

  According to my reckoning, the Temple of Inner Peace was only about two blocks from here. I left the car in Denny’s parking lot. My aged Mustang had been stripped in this area the last time I had ventured here. I noticed in the first block that the area had been upgraded since my last visit. But I could use the exercise.

  The building looked like a deserted church, complete with cross and steeple. The wide double doorway was up two steps under an arched entrance. A poster on one of the doors informed the faithful that the subject of tonight’s lecture was “Inner Peace and Outer Space.” Cocaine could give you inner peace and take you to outer space. Was that his pitch? It was difficult to believe that Bay could amass a million-dollar account with Joe Nolan by lecturing to the residents of Venice.

  A white-haired elderly woman in a brightly flowered dress was sitting at a card table in the foyer.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I hope so. I was at a funeral yesterday where your minister gave the eulogy. The man who died was a friend of mine years ago. I have learned since that he had gone into a deep depression recently.”

  She frowned. “Are you speaking of Michael Gregory?”

  I nodded.

  “I hope you aren’t suggesting that he committed suicide. He was murdered!”

  “That,” I said, “is what the police claim—mur­dered with a shotgun. They also claim that they found no weapon near the body. I lived in Santa Monica for twelve years and have good cause to believe they were lying.”

  She stared at me.

  “What’s your minister’s name?” I asked.

  “He’s not really—a—a minister,” she said. “His name is Turhan Bay. He won’t be here until this afternoon. Could I have him phone you?”

  “No, I’ll get in touch with him.”

  “Your name?”

  “Carlton Ramsay.”

  “Mr. Gregory was not a member of our flock,” she said, “but he was a very close friend of Turhan’s and Turhan tried to help him.”

  “That’s what I’ve been told. I look forward to meeting him.”

  Millionaire electronic preachers and kooky cults were infesting our country. Maybe Mrs. Casey was right; it was time to return to the true church. But what about confession? How could I convince the priest that incessant lying was a requisite of my trade. It was a necessary evil, designed to keep the bad guys discombobulated.

  There were a pair of teenagers standing next to my Mustang when I came back to the parking lot. They looked normal enough, but who can tell, these days?

  Then one of them said, “A sixty-fiver, right? Two hundred and eighty-nine cubes?”

  I nodded. “Right. With a four-barrel carb and Spelke cams.”

  “What’ll she do?” his partner asked.

  I shrugged. “I’ve never had her over a hundred. I’m too old and too frail to test her above that.”

  “You don’t look frail to me,” he said.

  “How about old?”

  It was his turn to shrug. “Oh, maybe thirty, thirty-two?”

  “You have just earned yourself a pair of Cokes,” I said, and handed him a fin.

  “Thank you, sir!” he said, and the two of them went into Denny’s.

  Maybe for a few beers? No. Denny was strict about that. There was still hope for the future of the planet.

  From there to the SMPD. The desk sergeant told me Lars was out on the street and would be all day. But it was possible, he added, that I could catch him around noon at Ye Sandwich Shoppe on Wilshire. Lars usually ate his lunch there.

  It was still short of eleven o’clock. I used the phone book in the hall to see if there was a listing for Crystal Lane. There was, 332 Adonis Court. I knew the street, a short one, and not in the high-rent district.

  They were all small frame houses on a narrow dead-end street. On the pitted asphalt driveway of 332, a sleek black Jaguar was parked. I wrote down the license number before I went up the one step porch to ring the doorbell.

  No answer. I rang again. The same. I went back to the car to sit and wait. It seemed highly unlikely to me that the Jag was Crystal’s. How long could they fornicate?

  Too long for me. A few minutes before noon I drove to Ye Sandwiche Shoppe. Lars walked in soon after.

  “You bought the dinner,” he said. “I’ll buy the lunch. I suppose you’ve been sticking your big nose into police business all morning.”

  “Somebody has to.” I didn’t reveal my sources, but I told him what I had learned from Denny and Joe Nolan, and what I had suspected at my stakeout at Crystal’s house.

  “You’ve got that Turhan-Lane bit wrong,” he informed me. “They’re not shacked up together. Turhan lives in Brentwood.”

  “Does he drive a Jaguar?”

  Lars shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  I handed him the slip. “Here’s the license number of the Jag that was parked on Crystal’s driveway.”

  “I’ll check it out.” He took a deep breath. “I picked up Miss Lane a few times when I was working Vice a few years ago. But I sure as hell can’t pick her up for having an expensive car on her driveway.”

  “You picked her up for prostitution?”

  “Yup. But she had some expensive clients and beat the rap.”

  “Did you know that she was once Mike’s girlfriend?”

  He shook his head. “Are you suggesting that Turhan Bay was involved in Mike’s murder?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. He gave the eulogy at Mike’s funeral.”

  “That’s really weird, Brock! Where’s the connection?”

  I shrugged.

  “The funeral was in Westwood,” he said. “That’s outside of our jurisdiction. So is Brentwood, where Bay lives, and so is Venice, where he runs his con. The LA Westside Station is where you should go with your weird theories.”

  “I’m not welcome there. They remember me from the old days.”

  “That was before you moved. Tell ’em you’re rich now.”

  I sighed. “You are one cynical bastard, Lars.”

  He didn’t answer, munching away at his double cheeseburger. I gave my attention to my more refined avocado-and-bacon sandwich on rye toast.

  Over our coffee, I said, “Bay is giving a lecture tonight on inner peace and outer space. It might be interesting. Would you like to come with me?”

  “I don’t work nights.”

  “It wouldn’t be work. Maybe it would help you attain inner peace. You could use some of that.”

  “Watch it, acid tongue!”

  “Screw you!” I finished my coffee and stood up. “Thanks for the lu
nch.”

  “Dear God, now we get the petulance bit. I’ll check that license number and phone you. When will you be back at the hotel?”

  “Around five.”

  “I’ll phone you there.”

  I smiled down at him. “Thanks. Buddies again, Lars?”

  “Hell, yes,” he said, “but I don’t know why.”

  Two hours later, after a fruitless search of my former informants in the area, I drove to the hotel and put in a long-distance call to Tacoma. Jan answered.

  “I’m still in smog town,” I told her, “and I miss you.”

  “I’ll bet you do! With all those bimbos you used to know down there?”

  “Jan, I had lunch with one cynic today and one is more than enough.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Lars Hovde. Remember him?”

  “That big man from Minnesota, that Santa Monica detective?”

  “That’s the man. How are things in Tacoma?”

  “Not so good. Aunt Alice has a cold and needs a lot of rest. I may come home a little later than we’d planned. You are not going to get involved in that murder, are you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Brock—!”

  “I’ll say one thing and then we will drop the subject. Mike Gregory was my friend.”

  “And fellow womanizer.”

  I considered reminding her that she was not a virgin when we first met, but decided not to.

  About a half minute of silence from Tacoma and then she said, “I apologize. I can be bitchy, can’t I?”

  “It’s one of your charms. I adore you, feisty.”

  “It’s mutual. You keep that fly of yours zipped shut.”

  “Even in the toilet?”

  That got a laugh out of her. Then, “Aunt Alice is coughing again. I have to go. You be very careful down there!”

  “I will. That’s a promise.”

  CHAPTER THREE