Dead Pigeon

by William Campbell Gault

  “Nope. I phoned last night and there was no answer. And I remembered how much your aunt loves movies.”

  “God, yes.” She lowered her voice. “And the worse they are, the better she likes. Tell me honestly, are you behaving yourself in that evil city?”

  “I am. I miss you.”

  “And I you. Have you learned anything about what happened to Mike?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Now, damn it, you be careful!”

  “Fear not. I am now officially working with the Santa Monica Police Department.”

  “That’s comforting to hear. I have to hang up. Alice has the sniffles and I’m making her some chicken soup.”

  The enigma in this case was Joe Nolan. The rest of the cast were not difficult to decipher; their goals were standard, the big buck, the American dream.

  Nolan had admitted that the temple of Mammon was his house of worship. He was the only person who had given me information without being asked. He had lied to me twice.

  It was also possible that he had lied about the Bay account. But why? I couldn’t think of any reason that would tie him up with Mike’s murder. A liar he certainly was; it’s almost a requisite of his trade. But I couldn’t see him as a man who would blow away a man’s face with a shotgun at night on the beach. He could be a key to this puzzle, but not the killer.

  It was my experience in this nefarious profession that learning the why is the surest path to the who. This case was shaping up as a whydunit.

  My new employee was out on the hunt. Lars would work with me this afternoon. I had run out of informants and places to go. I went back to my notes and the Times.

  The notes were as inconclusive as they were last night.

  The Times informed their readers that a financial firm in Thousand Oaks was being investigated by the Securities and Exchange Commission for what was labeled a sham operation—massive stock manipulations which had profited one participant to the tune of eight and a half million dollars.

  The participant’s attorney would probably wind up with more of the loot than his client or the SEC. It has always been a puzzle to me that the people who can most afford to be honest so rarely are.

  On the way to meet Lars I detoured to Crystal’s house, hoping to learn if we could be friends again. She wasn’t home.

  I was in a booth, drinking a diet Coke, when Lars arrived.

  “What in the hell is that?” he asked.

  “A diet Coke. I have to watch my weight.”

  He shook his head and sat down across from me. I told him about my one-round victory over Terrible Tim, and Sadler’s visit last night.

  “That’s all we need,” he said, “another private eye on the case. The lieutenant could change his mind if he hears about that.”

  “He doesn’t have to know. And none of it is in his jurisdiction.” I told him about Nolan’s lies. “Sadler will handle that end in Beverly Hills. He will also try to find out if the Bentley in the driveway in Studio City belongs to Gillete. If it does, I’ll work that end. It might be a little heavy for Sadler.”

  “And also for a guy who drinks diet Coke. Amateurs, Jesus! Maybe you can handle one of those muscle freaks. But with Gillete and his friends you’d better carry a gun.”

  “When and if the time comes, I will.”

  He said, “I talked with a detective from LA West this morning and he reminded me of something I’d forgotten. About three years ago one of their of­ficers blew away a drug dealer.” He paused. “With a sawed-off shotgun. He had a bad record before that happened. Killing an unarmed man got him fired.”

  “I think I read about him—Emil something?”

  “Emil Clauss. I couldn’t find any address for him, but he had some drinking buddies who might know it. Denny’s was one of their hangouts. We’ll go there first.”

  Denny was alone when we entered, reading the Racing Form. Clauss, he told us, hadn’t been in for a month and he didn’t know where he lived.

  “Do you know where any of his buddies live?” Lars asked.

  “His best buddy lives somewhere near here, but I don’t know his last name. Everybody just calls him Shorty. The boys kid him about living with some retired hooker named Big Bertha.”

  “I know the woman,” Lars said.

  “Natch,” Denny said, and winked at me.

  Lars glared at him.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  A block from the tavern, Lars said, “Turn left here.” A block and a half after the turn, he said, “It’s that two-story house on the other side of the street.”

  It was a weathered frame house, painted gray, with a small front porch. There was a Room For Rent sign on one of the porch pillars.

  The middle-aged woman who opened the door was tall and buxom, attired in a red-white-and-blue striped silk caftan. Her hair was henna red, her brows and lashes heavy with mascara.

  “Lars!” she said. “It’s been a long time, honey. What’s on your mind?”

  “Your friend Shorty,” he said.

  Her face stiffened. “Why?”

  “We just want to ask him a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  “We’re trying to locate a friend of his, a man named Emil Clauss.”

  “That creep?” She pointed at the sign on the pillar. “It’s been hanging there for three weeks now. That bastard sneaked out the night before I put it up there, owing me for board and room. He’s no friend of Shorty’s, not anymore.”

  “Do either of you know where he is now?”

  She shook her head. “If you want to talk with Shorty, he’s working at Avco Press in Santa Monica. Clauss used to be a cop, right?”

  Lars nodded.

  She looked at me. “You a cop, too?”

  I shook my head.

  “I didn’t think so.” She took a deep breath. “Clauss made us nervous all the time he was here. He’s a real gun nut.”

  “Does that include a shotgun?”

  She shrugged. “I never saw one when I made up his room.” She paused to stare at Lars. “Are you talking about that man who was killed on the beach. Do you think—”

  Lars lied with a shake of his head. “The man who killed him was picked up in Fresno yesterday. But the D.A. doesn’t think we have enough solid evidence to charge him.”

  “Ain’t that always the way?” she said. “If I learn anything, Lars, I’ll phone you. Who are you shacked up with now?”

  “Phone me at the station,” he said. “That number you should know by now.”

  As we walked to the car I asked him, “Why did you lie to her about Minatti?”

  “I don’t trust her. She’s lied to me before. For all we know she and Clauss could be bosom buddies. If she tells Clauss about Minatti being picked up for the kill, he might figure he’s in the clear.”

  That, I thought, was really absurd. I said nothing.

  “Let’s cruise around down here,” he said. “In my short career at the West Side Station, I got to know some of the bad guys. Maybe we’ll spot one of ’em.”

  Half an hour of fruitless search after that, he said, “Stop here. I think I know that guy going into the bar across the street.”

  It was a small corner bar next to an empty lot. The gilded letters on the front window identified it as Tessie’s Tavern.

  When we came in, the man who had just entered was at the far end of the bar. The woman was pouring him a glass of ale. She was tall and thin and definitely not young. Her gray-streaked hair was tied in a bun at the back. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. The man was dark-skinned, of medium height, maybe Hispanic, maybe not.

  Lars went down to talk with him. I stayed at the near end and ordered a Miller Lite. There were only the four of us in the place.

  I was halfway through my beer when the fifth character walked in—Terrible Tim Tucker.

  “You lying bastard,” he said. “I got the word on you!”

  The three other occupants of the room were staring at us now. The woman said,
“If you guys are heading for a fight, take it outside.”

  “We’re not,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, we are,” Tucker said, and started toward me.

  “Cool it, you creep!” Lars called out, but the damned fool kept coming.

  By the time I clambered off my stool, his hand was reaching for my throat. I tried to avoid his grasp, too late. I tried to kick backward into his groin, and missed.

  “Damn you, stop it!” the woman shouted.

  His grip tightened. Victory, if you will pardon the expression, was within his grasp. This had to be his round. My legs were turning into rubber.

  But Lars was next to him now, his .38 pressed firmly against Tucker’s temple. “Let go of him,” Lars said, “or die where you’re standing.”

  Tucker dropped his hands. Lars turned to face him but didn’t display his shield. This was not Santa Monica. His .38 was still in his hand. “Go,” he said.

  Tucker looked at the gun and then at me. “We’ll meet again,” he said, and walked out.

  Lars was smirking.

  “Don’t be so goddamned smug,” I said. “I took him the first time.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BOTH THE WOMAN AND the man at the far end of the bar were looking nervously at Lars. He put his gun back into his holster and smiled at both of them. “Just a little family feud,” he explained.

  I put a bill on the bar and we went out.

  “Learn anything?” I asked him.

  “Not yet. Maybe later. He’s got the right connections. He’s out on probation, so I’m sure he’ll cooperate. He can use the Brownie points. We may as well call it a day. I can’t think of any other place to go.”

  I took him to the Department car on the sandwich shop parking lot. “Tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Only in the morning, and maybe not then. I’m way behind on my paperwork. I’ll call you. If you’re not at the hotel, you call me.”

  It was still short of four o’clock. I took the detour again, and Crystal’s car was in her driveway.

  She stared at me for seconds when she opened the door.

  I smiled at her. “I came to apologize.”

  Her voice was dull. “Come in. Coffee.”

  “I guess. You sound gloomy.”

  “It’s been a bad day,” she said.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “It was only one of many,” she said. “How in hell did I ever wind up in a dump like this?”

  “You are still a very attractive woman, Crystal.”

  “Maybe for my age and weight. But Turhan is never going to leave his old and ugly wife. He needs her money to support the cause.”

  “You lust for him?”

  She nodded.

  “He got rich in Chicago. Maybe he will again here.”

  She shook her head. “That life is behind him.”

  I considered telling her what Nolan had told me about Bay’s holdings, but it could be just another of his lies. I stood up. “Are we friends again?”

  She smiled and nodded and went to the door with me. She was still standing by the open doorway when I drove away.

  If she had married Mike, she could have been in worse shape than she was. That damned fool! I thought back to that Saturday afternoon at Palo Alto when Cal had us down by twenty-one points at the half.

  Mike had started the second half, the backup sophomore whiz kid. He had completed nineteen out of twenty-two pass attempts, including the fifty-one yarder that put us three points ahead four sec­onds before the final gun.

  Maybe every day had to be a downer after a day like that. And today? The average salaries in the National Football League were twenty times as high as we had earned. And despite that wealth, too many of our stars were into drugs. What was it, an impulsion to destroy themselves? Jocks …

  Marijuana, Mike had insisted, was not as addictive as cigarettes, and less damaging to the lungs. Mike had always believed what he needed to believe. Too many of us do.

  The big surprise of today was running into Tucker at that bar. Was it only a coincidence, I wondered, or had he been tracking me? The bar was a long way from Studio City. There was a possibility that he had come down from there to visit his cousin, but I doubted it. One thing I didn’t doubt was what he had promised me; we would meet again.

  Dennis phoned before dinner to give me his progress report. The Bentley, he had learned, was registered by the DMV to Arnold Gillete. We had that connection now.

  I told him about the incident at Tessie’s Tavern and my suspicion that Tucker had been shadowing me.

  “Next time you’ll know,” he said. “He’s driving a yellow Chevrolet pickup truck.” He gave me the license number.

  “You must have friends at the DMV,” I said.

  “A brother-in-law. I have some lawyer friends, too. We need as many contacts as we can find, right?”

  “Good thinking,” I agreed.

  “One more thing I meant to tell you. If you decide you need a gun, I have an extra one.”

  “Not yet.”

  I added this new information to the record. We had one confirmed connection now, Tucker and Gillete. Tucker and his cousin were a familial connection only, I felt. They were different breeds of cats. My record was beginning to resemble a maze.

  The dinners in the hotel dining room were a little too far on the gourmet side for my peasant tastes. I walked to Heinie’s for his more substantial sirloin steak and cottage fries.

  Six of the booths were occupied, roughly eighty percent by males. I sat in the only vacant one.

  Heinie came over to sit with me, bringing a pitcher of Einlicher with him. His wife took over the bar.

  “Anything new on Mike?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “You sticking with it?”

  I nodded.

  “You are one stubborn Mick,” he said.

  “Guilty. Do you remember Terrible Tim Tucker?”

  “That freak? Hell, yes! He used to drop in here once in a while when he was living in North Hollywood. He’s not wrestling anymore, is he?”

  “Not anymore. He’s the muscle for a hoodlum named Arnold Gillete now. They live in Studio City.”

  Heinie tapped his forehead. “I remember now. Some reporter from the Express told me Tucker was connected with the mob in Chicago. That was a long time ago.” He shook his head. “But Tucker isn’t Italian.”

  “His new boss is. His real name is Arno Gilleti.”

  “He could be in the mob, with that name. But that Tucker freak? I can’t buy it. Half the stuff the reporters feed me here is sheer bullshit. They love to pretend they have the inside story.” He stood up. “Sirloin and fries?”

  “Natch.”

  He went to the kitchen to order it. When he brought it, he went back behind the bar and his wife went home.

  I played liar’s poker with some of the regulars after eating and wound up fifteen dollars ahead, the best thing that had happened to me today. I was glad that Joe Nolan hadn’t been in the game.

  Lars had left a message for me at the hotel; he would be free to work with me tomorrow afternoon.

  I wasn’t looking forward to another depressing round of lies and evasions, mean streets and tawdry people. But Heinie had called it right. I was one stubborn Mick.

  Lars had gone that route for decades, bringing the bad guys to justice and seeing the courts turn them free on some technicality that only a lawyer could understand.

  And the ones who were convicted, like Carlos Minatti, walked out of prison long before their original termination dates on what is euphemistically called good behavior. That put them back on the streets where they could then indulge in bad behavior.

  It was a restless night and a chilly and overcast morning, standard May weather for the area. Foggy in the morning, clearing by noon, except along the coast; that was the weatherman’s prediction almost every May day.

  I had located none of my former informants on my solo endeavor. Lars, I suspected, had
run out of most of his. We could be on a dead-end road.

  There was one connection I could investigate: Bay and his cousin. I phoned the temple and was told that he wouldn’t be in until this afternoon.

  I phoned his Brentwood home and he answered. “This is Brock Callahan,” I said. “I’m sure you remember me.”

  “Unfortunately, I do,” he said. “But Crystal has since told me you are an honorable man, except when you ply your trade. She told me you are a private investigator.”

  “I was, until my inheritance. I think both of us share a common goal. We want to find the person who murdered Mike Gregory. Could I come and talk with you this morning?”

  “Of course.”

  Of course he would say “of course” was my cynical thought. I had mentioned my inheritance.

  The overcast grew heavier as I drove closer to the ocean. The lannon stone home of Turhan Bay was on a wooded slope that overlooked the Brentwood Country Club.

  Turhan smiled when he opened the door. He looked past me at my car on the driveway. “A sixty-five,” he guessed. “A classic.” I nodded.

  “I should have kept mine,” he said. “Come in.”

  I followed him down a long hall. He led me to a small room at the end of it. There was a small desk in the room, two chairs, and a file cabinet. Two of the walls were completely shelved and jammed with books. He sat behind the desk, I in the other chair. “You know by now that I lied to you,” I opened. “I guess it was a hangover from my previous profession. The man I really came to question you about that evening was your cousin.”

  “Timothy? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “He is working for Arnold Gillete.”

  “I don’t recognize the name. Who is he?”

  “A major local hoodlum. Tim is his muscle.”

  He sighed. “I didn’t know that. Tim and I were never very close, even in Chicago. I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a year. He was quite often in trouble with the law in Chicago.” He smiled. “As I was. His problems were less serious, mostly bar brawls. But you can’t believe he had anything to do with Mike’s death, can you? I mean—a shotgun?”

  I shrugged. I said, “There’s a rumor that I picked up from a friend this morning that your cousin had a Mafia connection in Chicago.”