He looked nervously around the room. “We’re getting out of here. This is no good here.”
I stood up quickly. “All right. Do you want me to go first?”
“How else? Any funny moves, you’ll get a slug in the spine. Go down the back steps.”
I opened the door and looked out into the hall before going through and heading for the rear stairs. When we came to the parking lot at the bottom, Turk said, “That green Ford over there. Get in on this side in front.”
It was the curb side of the car. I opened the door and climbed in and he said, “Slide over.”
I slid over behind the wheel.
He said, “We’re getting out of here. That dame’s probably on the phone right now, calling the law. Head for San Vicente. “ The barrel of his gun dug into my side savagely.
I had already told him I knew nothing. And even if I did know something, wouldn’t he assume I had already told it to Bogaro? I started the engine and pulled out of the lot, heading toward San Vicente Boulevard.
“I know how you guys operate,” he said hoarsely, “playing both ends and milking the middle. You ain’t about to operate that way with me, Callahan.”
I said as calmly as I could, “Miss Donovan didn’t trust me any more than you do. I swear to you she didn’t tell me anything.”
“Huh! “he said.
His voice had some tremor in it. I had a feeling the gun in his hand was a new experience for him.
I said, “I don’t know what your beef is with me. Paretti’s off the hook; he was with the police when his girl was killed.”
“To hell with Paretti,” he said. “You’re the man with the answers. I put a couple of holes in you and you’ll start talking. Turn left here.”
I turned left on San Vicente, toward the ocean.
I asked reasonably, “How can I talk with holes in me?”
The gun dug at me once more. “I don’t mean big holes. I mean flesh wounds like they say on TV. Them private eyes on TV, they only get flesh wounds. But I bet they could hurt like hell. I bet they could make a man talk.”
“Only, “ I said, “ if a man had something to talk about.”
“You’ll think of something,” he said. “Just keep driving.”
We continued toward the ocean. Traffic was light; the traffic coming toward us was far away, across a wide parkway. San Vicente Boulevard terminated at the bluff above the sea; there were a number of streets to the right that led down into the canyon and from there we could reach the Coast Highway. I wondered if that was where we were going.
By forcing me to move at the point of a gun, Kostic had already violated the state’s “Little Lindbergh Law”; the gas chamber was the penalty for that. It was possible he didn’t know this. It was also possible he didn’t know Bogaro had a witness who could tie him to the murder of Dawn Donovan.
Those were two uncertain possibilities in my favor. Balanced against them was the stronger possibility that Turk Kostic had already committed one murder today; he could only die once.
We were heading toward the ocean. The Coast Highway could take us to a number of uninhabited or thinly inhabited areas where I would be at the complete mercy of a moron with a gun.
A block ahead now there was a stop sign, the last one before we would come to the end of San Vicente Boulevard. If I hoped to continue breathing, I didn’t have too many opportunities left. I glanced over at his side of the car, locating the door handle.
“What’s the matter? “ he asked. “You getting scared?”
“I’m scared. Shouldn’t I be?”
“You sure should. Turn right at the stop sign.”
I slowed for the stop gradually, hoping to crowd the brakes just before I reached for the door handle. I wanted to throw off his aim as much as possible.
“Slow down,” he growled. “You’re going too fast to make the turn.”
I hit the brakes and he lurched forward. I found the door handle, opened it, and jumped from the car, slamming the door behind me.
I started running back the way we had come — and was damned near decked by a car coming up in the lane to our left. The driver screeched to a stop in time; I bounced off his front fender without losing my footing and went tearing across the grass of the parkway toward the opposite side of the boulevard.
I had almost made the sidewalk over there when a black and white sedan came gunning around the corner from the side street and the man next to the driver called, “Just a minute, Mac! What’s your hurry?”
It was a Santa Monica Police car.
Chapter 13
I WAS SITTING in a small, square room that smelled of cigarettes and Lysol and I had been sitting there for ten minutes, alone. They were probably trying to wake up a detective to interrogate me.
I had asked the man at the desk to phone Deputy Bogaro at the Malibu Station or at his home. He hadn’t seemed impressed by my name-dropping.
There was no way of knowing if Ruth Hansel had phoned the police. If she hadn’t, I didn’t want to use her name. She had already had too much publicity.
The detective-sergeant who finally came through the door from the hall was a man I’d met before, a caustic individual named Heller.
He said, “Well, Callahan, I’m surprised to find you visiting our peaceful town. Here on business? “ He went over to sit behind a small steel desk.
“I came out to play poker at the Antler’s Club.” I told him.
He looked at me coolly for a few seconds. “We can do without your usual lip. There hasn’t been any poker at the Antler’s Club since the day the new administration took over.”
“I apologize. Did you get in touch with Bogaro?”
He frowned. “Bogaro — ? Tony?”
“Deputy Anthony Bogaro,” I explained patiently, “of the Malibu Sheriff’s Station. I asked the desk sergeant to phone him.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been working with him.”
“Since when?”
“Since my friend Donald Calvin was killed.”
Sergeant Heller said, “ It seems we aren’t given all this inside information, Callahan, in our little city. The way I read it in the newspaper, there was a call out for you. According to what I read, you were one of the suspects in the Calvin murder.”
“That’s what we want the papers to believe,” I said. “I hope you don’t get all your information from the Los Angeles newspapers, Sergeant.”
“I don’t read them,” he said. “I was speaking of the local paper.”
“Oh. When I was picked up, I tried to get the arresting officers to chase the man who kidnapped me. Instead, they brought me here.”
He nodded and picked up a paper. “I have that information. A man named Kostic. Where did he kidnap you from?”
“I’d rather not say. But he had a gun on me all the way. And the Sheriff’s Department wants him for questioning about that girl who was killed on the Strip this afternoon.”
He nodded again. “You’re telling me things I know. What I want to know is where Kostic picked you up.”
I paused, thinking of all the angles.
And then something in his manner warned me that it was a trick. I said, “I was kidnapped from the apartment of a woman named Ruth Hansel.”
“Well! “ he said. “Finally! What were we getting so cute about?”
“She’s had too much publicity already,” I explained. “I was trying to protect her.”
His voice was sharper. “Protect her? Or you?”
“I don’t need protection, Sergeant. Any Department in this county except yours respects my reputation.”
“Maybe they’re impressed by cuties,” he said sourly. “Miss Hansel phoned us and reported the kidnapping before you were brought in. You were evasive with the arresting officers and you were evasive with me. It isn’t the first time you’ve been evasive with me.”
“There’s a chance it won’t be the last,” I said. “I sell privacy. That’s likely to require a certain amount of
evasion. Shall I phone my lawyer now or are we going to start talking sensibly?”
His face reddened. “I warned you about your lip.”
“I remember. And I’m trying to be polite. Those two uniformed comedians who brought me in thought it was quite a joke when I suggested they follow Kostic. He was still in sight at the time. Evidently your new administration’s broom hasn’t swept their level yet.”
He started to answer — and the door opened. A uniformed sergeant said, “Bogaro’s here. Do you want to see him now?”
Heller nodded; the officer stepped to one side and Bogaro came in.
He glanced at Heller and glared at me. “God damn it, didn’t I tell you to wear a gun?”
“I was wearing a gun. I couldn’t get to it. Any news on him?”
“Nothing.” He looked at Heller. “It would be best if nothing gets out about your picking up Callahan. He could be our only chance to get Kostic.”
Heller nodded absently. “We don’t need the advertising. How long has Callahan been working with you?”
“A couple days.” Tony smiled thinly. “He give you a bad time, Mike?”
“About the same as usual.” Heller’s voice was casual. “Pritchard know you’re working with him?”
Pritchard was the Sheriff.
Bogaro said evenly, “I don’t see much of our leader. I don’t know what reports he reads. What kind of question was that, Mike?”
Heller was silent a moment. Then he said, “I happen to know how you feel about Joe Paretti. It’s logical you could connect Paretti if you could find something to nail Kostic for. That would make it personal. We cooperate with Departments here, but not with officers on personal vendettas.”
The skin over Bogaro’s cheekbones whitened but his Voice was calm. “I’ve got a witness who will swear she saw Kostic leave that Donovan girl’s apartment. You want the name of the witness?”
“Easy, now, Tony. I have to be careful. We’ve got a new Chief, you know, and he goes by the book.”
Bogaro stared at him stonily and his voice had a rasp in it. “Okay, we’ll go by the book. I’m here to pick up my prisoner for questioning.”
They had a thirty-second staring session after that one. Tony’s eyes were probably no more fierce than Heller’s, but Tony’s heavy, black eyebrows and his flat, fighter’s nose gave his glare the edge.
Sergeant Heller said finally, “That’s the official way it will be handled, then; I’m turning this man over to your custody.”
“Thank you, “ Bogaro said dryly. “ Let’s go, Callahan.”
We went out past the sergeant at the desk, into the soft, damp breeze from the ocean.
“By the book,” Bogaro muttered. “The Santa Monica Department going by the book — that’s a new one!”
I said, “You know Sheriff Pritchard lives in this town, don’t you?”
He nodded. “And I know he and Heller are lodge brothers. So maybe this case will be finished before next lodge meeting. I cross my bridges one at a time.”
“And maybe Heller’s on the phone to Pritchard right now. Tony, you’re not being a professional.”
We had reached the car by this time and he paused to stare at me bleakly. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“The same thing Heller was trying to tell you. Nailing Paretti can mean too much to you. You stuck your neck way out in that little room.”
“Did I? Have you considered I stuck it out for you, just like I promised I would? “ He opened the door. “Get in. I’ll drive you to your car. I want to talk with that girl, anyway.”
It didn’t seem to be the proper time to tell him that Paretti was now my client. He might pull in his neck, exposing mine.
As we started out Wilshire, I asked him, “Did Jones learn anything up at Oxnard?”
“He seems to think so. He didn’t tell me much but he sounded more optimistic. That’s not what I’m working on, anyway, the fire. The murder, that’s my baby.”
“You don’t think they could be connected?”
“I don’t see how. What would Paretti gain by a fire?”
Paretti, Paretti, Paretti…. I shut my mouth.
At the apartment Ruth wouldn’t open the door until she heard my voice. She was obviously still shaken by Kostic’s visit.
Bogaro had only a few questions for her and a warning to keep her door locked; I stayed after he left in the hope some words of mine could quiet her nervousness.
She tried to be polite about it but I could see my presence was only making her more nervous. And why not? Kostic hadn’t come to visit her. I had been his reluctant host.
I went down to the car and sat. A reasonable man wouldn’t come back to this town and certainly not tonight, but Kostic wasn’t a reasonable man.
I sat for almost an hour and then drove over to Venice and the Rusty Anchor.
There were five male customers in the long narrow room and three women. The night-shift bartender was a short, heavy man with stocky forearms and a full moon face.
I beckoned him over to the end of the bar and asked quietly, “Has Paretti phoned or been in?”
He shook his head. “Ain’t seen him since last night.”
“He asked me to report here,” I said. “I want to tell him that Kostic kidnapped me a couple hours ago. He’s got a gun. I escaped but the Santa Monica Department held me for a while. Have you got all that straight?”
He nodded. “Why don’t you wait? Joe might call. You’re Callahan, right?”
I nodded.
“Have a beer on the house, “ he said, “and sit a while. “ He glanced at a clock on the back bar. “Joe could call any minute now.”
I eased onto a stool as he went to get my beer. I had noticed only the gender and number of the customers on entering and now I took a closer look.
Two of the girls were floozies, sitting with three pallid men in sport shirts at a round table in the back of the room. The two men at the bar were wearing work shirts and cotton trousers; they were discussing the Rams.
The last customer I cased was at the other end of the bar from me, hunched forward, in partial shadow. My eyes came into focus just as she turned her face my way.
It was Ann Bogaro.
She smiled and lifted a hand in greeting. I went down to take the stool next to her.
I asked quietly, “Are you crazy? Tony could walk in here any second.”
“Somebody has to warn Joe,” she said. “My brother is out to get him. And I mean get him!”
“Joe knows that. Ye gods, what makes you think that’s news to Paretti?”
“By get him,” she informed me quietly, “I mean kill him. Tony isn’t thinking like a cop any more, not about Joe and not since dinnertime tonight.”
The bartender set my beer in front of me and I thanked him.
He went back to the bar discussing the Rams and I asked Ann, “What happened at dinnertime?”
“I told Tony I still — liked Joe.”
“Liked? Or loved?”
Her intense young face was drawn. “I said liked. I said I liked him better than any other man I’ve ever met.”
“How many have you met?”
“Too many.”
“Ann,” I said, “there’s not much future in liking Joe Paretti. What’s his big attraction?”
“He’s not cheap, he’s not gloomy.” She took a breath. “And he was the first real man I ever knew well.”
“When you were fourteen.”
She said nothing, sipping her drink.
“Did he introduce you to marijuana?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “Hanging around with punks, that’s how I got on that kick. Joe Paretti bought me the first dress I ever had that cost over fifteen dollars. He bought me the first meal in a restaurant where they didn’t use paper napkins. He introduced me to some interesting, hep people.”
I sipped my beer. “And then dumped you.”
“No,” she said. “Tony broke it up. I was a minor, don’t forget.
Tony sent me to a convent school in San Diego.”
“Didn’t Uncle Joe come down to visit you there?”
She made a face. “You’re real square, aren’t you? You’re as square as Tony.”
“And about as poor,” I agreed. “You know, I’ve been told the last couple of days it’s a man’s world and a white man’s world and a colored man’s world. The important story is that it’s a rich man’s world, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. It’s not a woman’s.”
“And this is no place for a lady,” I said. “So you trot along home and I promise you I’ll forward your message to Joe. Okay?”
She shook her head. “I want to see him. I haven’t seen him for a long time. I just want to look at him.”
“My God!” I said. “It is love.”
She shrugged. “How would I know? If you’d lost your — your innocence at twelve, could you ever be sure when it’s love?”
I said nothing, my mind rebelling at the images that raced through it.
“Shocked?” she asked softly.
“Yes. And I’m not quite as square as you think. But I am shocked. Joe’s nothing, Ann. He’s a laughing man with a Cadillac convertible, but he’s nothing, God damn it!”
“And what am I,” she asked, “Joan of Arc?”
“You’re intelligent and pretty. You certainly could be something better than a bookie’s girl friend. Please go. I promise you I’ll give Joe your message.”
She shook her head stubbornly.
I was silent, nursing my beer.
One of the men at the bar said, “They’re playing kids, that’s what it is. When they had Callahan and Lenny Toll and Waterfield, they had men out there on that field. They had men playing a man’s game and now they — ”
The bartender’s moon face turned my way. He winked. I winked back.
Ann asked softly, “How can they be men, playing games?”
“Don’t talk to me. Do you think it was a boy who kept you out of jail?”
She put a hand on mine. “Don’t sulk.”
I moved my hand away.
Her voice was a whisper. “I haven’t forgotten what you did for me. They’re right when they call you The Rock. You are. You were for me, when I needed a rock. I’ll go. Promise me you’ll tell Joe I was here and give him my message?”
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