Streets of Death llm-28

by Dell Shannon

  He wondered suddenly if Carey had thought of digging up that raw empty lot where the building had been torn down. That was woolgathering with a vengeance. For one thing, he thought suddenly, Mrs. Del Sardo was right-that place had thin walls, you couldn’t have a good argument without neighbors knowing it. It didn’t make much noise, say, to hit a man over the head, but a little girl like Marta couldn’t have got him out of the place, down the stairs, alone.

  What about the wheelchair? It had rubber tires. Galeano had a sudden clear vision of Fleming, dead or dying, tied into the wheelchair while she manipulated it down the stairs quietly, so quietly, late at night. She’d taken him to the doctor-that had meant getting him down the stairs. She was a sturdy girl, and it was a question of leverage, keeping the thing straight. But he’d probably helped, those times, with the increased strength in his arms and shoulders.

  That was nonsense too. She couldn’t have done it; there hadn’t been time. He’d been perfectly all right that morning when she left. And the boy said there’d been no answer to his ring at one o’clock. And the car was gone then.

  Galeano gave it up. Only God knew what had happened to Edwin Fleming, and He was preserving inscrutable silence.

  ***

  Jason Grace had three exposures left in the Instamatic, and used them up that morning taking pictures of cuddly brown Celia Ann, who was-impossible as it seemed-nearly eighteen months old now. She was pretty special to him and Virginia because they’d waited so long for her, deviling the County Adoption Agency.

  "You want anything at the market, Ginny?" he asked after lunch. "It looks like rain again, and I think she’s coming down with a cold."

  "She can’t be after all the shots. Jase, you’ve got that look again. You’re thinking about something, and you know I wanted to go see your mother this afternoon. Are you going out on something on your day off?"

  "Just around a little, Ginny." He brushed his mustache back and forth. "I just had a little idea."

  "Your little ideas I know," said Virginia. Grace grinned at her and picked up the phone. When he got hold of Robert Buford in Thousand Oaks, he said after identifying himself, "I hope you’re feeling better, Mr. Buford."

  "Well, I suppose. It’s over. That is, the funeral’s tomorrow, we had to wait till your office released the body."

  Grace didn’t bother to correct that to the coroner’s office. "I’ve got a funny sort of question for you, Mr. Buford. Did your brother like to play cards? Gamble a little now and then?"

  "That is a funny one, Mr. Grace. Well, he used to. He used to be quite a man for that, years back. But Mary, his wife, she disapproved of it and he hadn’t for a long while. Tell you something funny, Mr. Grace-when I couldn’t get hold of him, it just crossed my mind to wonder if maybe he’d gone down to Gardena, one of the gambling houses, to sort of pass the time. He was at loose ends, and since Mary was gone-but I don’t think he would have, at that. He’d got out of the habit."

  "I see. That’s interesting," said Grace.

  "You found out anything about who killed him yet?"

  "Not yet, but I may have a little lead," said Grace.

  "Thanks, Mr. Buford… Ginny, I’m off. I’ll be back sometime." She just gave him an exasperated look. He dropped the film off at the drugstore and went on downtown, to Virgil Avenue. It was just one-thirty. Ben’s Bar and Grill was open. The little idea might be nothing at all, but in Grace’s experience you had to, as the song said, accentuate the positive to get any results. It was said that if you sent a telegram saying All is discovered to any ten people at random, nine of them would pack bags and start running. He believed it.

  He walked into the place and went up to the bar. The owner, fat bald Charles Reinke, was alone here: no customers yet. He recognized Grace with a nod, obviously remembering the badge in his hand before. "Do for you?" he asked unwillingly.

  "Oh, Scotch," said Grace. "Straight up. By the way, why’s it called Ben’s? Your name is Charles."

  Reinke looked even more wary at the implication that Grace had been checking into him. "Uh, it was named that when I bought it," he said. "It’d been here awhile, I just didn’t bother to change the name."

  "Sounds sensible," said Grace, and sipped Scotch.

  "But you know something, Mr. Reinke. I don’t need to tell you that the state examiners are pretty damn choosy who they sell liquor licenses to. You could lose yours right away quick if they got to hear you’re running illegal card games here."

  "Oh, hell and damnation," said Reinke. "Hell and damnation. I knew it-I knew it’d get around, those God-damned fools- It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t want any part of it! I told them to go away somewhere else, I told them about my license, listen, this place is all I got, I just barely make it now, I got to keep my nose clean if I-I told them!"

  He was nearly wringing his hands; he looked at Grace anxiously. "How did you hear about it? Have you-have you-"

  "Called up the board and said come grab your license quick? No, Mr. Reinke." Grace hadn’t anticipated this reaction; from what Galeano had said, he’d rather expected the quiet game in a back room with a cut to the house.

  "I don’t think the regulations are just very realistic myself."

  It was a human instinct, gambling. Reinke’s fat face looked somewhat less miserable.

  "Neither do I-I don’t know your name." Grace told him. "-Mr. Grace. But there they are-and I get caught with customers playing for money, I’m dead. Look, it was only the once, see. I asked them to go somewhere else, I told them, but Sam-he just laughed and said I shouldn’t worry so much. I couldn’t do nothing about it, because-"

  He hesitated.

  "Good customers?" suggested Grace, letting him take his time.

  "Well, yeah, but also-I might as well say, as long as I got to tell about it-also, I owe Sam some money. I got in a bind last summer when my wife was sick, we don’t have any insurance, and Sam loaned me a thousand. I been payin’ it back as I can, but he’s been a damn good friend to me, he’s a nice guy and I just didn’t like to press it, he brought out the cards. Honest, it was only the one time and I’ll see it don’t happen again."

  "Al1 right," said Grace casually. "When was it? Was Dick Buford in on it?"

  "Yeah," said Reinke, passing a hand across his mouth.

  "Yeah. That was another reason I felt kind of nervous, you coming before, asking. I suppose it was just a coincidence, him getting clobbered by some thug just after, but--"

  "That night? Last Tuesday, a week ago today?"

  "Well, no," said Reinke. "No, it got started on Monday afternoon. They just got to playing and sort of kept on. It was draw poker."

  "Mmh-hm," said Grace. "Who was in the game?"

  "Well, Sam-Sam McAllister, he lives down the block on Fifth. He started it, and the Colombos-Rudy and Vic Colombo, they own the garage across the street, got a couple reliable hands so they could take the time off. And Andy Bond, he’s a regular too, a retired guy like Sam. There was another guy, I’m not sure of his name, he works at the men’s store across the street, but he was only in the game awhile, said he had to get back to work. Then Buford dropped in, late Monday afternoon, and got in it. I asked ’em to go away, they could go to Sam’s, but Sam said his wife’d kill him if she come back, find the place in a mess-I guess she was away somewheres--and they were comfortable here, everything to hand like, and I shouldn’t worry. I could just go home, he said, he’d keep count of any drinks they had and sandwiches and all, and if they got tired they’d lock up. But they didn’t," said Reinke. "They was all still there Tuesday, all Tuesday, and I was wild, I tell you."

  Grace marveled slightly, no gambler himself, but he knew such sessions did go on. "Sam’s nephew was with them then," said Reinke, "young sailor, he was on leave, stayin’ with Sam. Yeah, Buford was still in too."

  "When did it break up?"

  "Along about seven that night. I told them they had to go away, I didn’t like it. And I guess by then they were getting tired, no wonde
r, even if one or the other’d drop out awhile and lie down in my back room. They finally broke it up and went."

  "Would you happen to know who came out ahead?" asked Grace. "They playing very high stakes?"

  "I don’t think so, but it went on so long- Yeah, Buford and Andy took kind of a bundle, I guess. I remember this sailor sayin’ they’d got most of his shore-leave money, and Sam said maybe he’d got some education for it, better than spending it on girls."

  "They all left about the same time?"

  "About. I was damn glad to see them go, and I made up my mind, Sam try that again, it’s no go-I’ll put my foot down. Mr. Grace, you aren’t going to do anything about it, are you?"

  "Not to you," said Grace, finishing his Scotch.

  ***

  The sergeant at Pendleton had been very helpful, but Hackett was tired of this damned job. He and Higgins had by now come across several military personnel stationed at Pendleton who hailed from California, but nowhere near L.A.

  "And that," said Higgins finally with a long sigh, "is that. Finis. If it was a hunch, it was a dud, and damn Scarne and S.I.D. We might better have asked Luis to consult his crystal ball."

  "Probably." Hackett lit a cigarette and flipped over the sheets on his desk. "Oh, damn-here’s one we missed, George. The AWOL’s. But it’s short and sweet- And isn’t that a coincidence?" he added suddenly. "Don’t speak too soon. Here’s an enlisted man, Leo Mullarkey, AWOL last month. His home address is on Magnolia, just a block away from Faber’s Market."

  "And I suppose he made for it right off," said Higgins, "the first place they’d look for him."

  "People do stupid things or we wouldn’t have such a good reputation," said Hackett.

  "I believe you. I said to Mary, I think the stupidity rubs off on us. I don’t know, I suppose it is just barely possible, Art. And wouldn’t you know, if he is, the last one of all these hundreds of names. But he won’t be there now, for God’s sake."

  "Maybe we can get an idea when he was." Hackett got up and put on his jacket. Higgins straightened his tie. Palliser, who had been typing a report across the room and just picked up the phone, said suddenly, "You don’t say, Jase. Who? Well, I’ll be damned! The boss’ll be interested in that, but I’ll never understand how anyone can waste time over- Yes, I see. Yes, it doesn’t say how much but we can talk to the other men and- You and your little ideas. I’ll pass it on… Jase just came across something interesting on Buford, Art."

  "Buford? Oh, that. I hope we’ve just come across something interesting too," said Hackett.

  Outside, it was making up its mind to rain again. They took Higgins' Pontiac, as it were for good luck. They couldn’t transport a subject in Hackett’s Barracuda. The address on Magnolia was an old square stucco house with a strip of brown grass in front and an ancient Ford sitting in the drive. They parked in front, went up and rang the bell. After an interval the door opened.

  "Mrs. Mullarkey?" Hackett showed her the badge.

  "What the hell do cops want?" She stared at them angrily, unwilling acknowledgment in her eyes of two great big cops, looking like cops, on her doorstep. "Oh, I suppose you’re lookin’ for Leo-we don’t know where he’s at."

  She was a fat bleached blonde about fifty, makeup plastered on, in tight black pants, a bright flowered tunic.

  "When was the last time you saw him?" asked Hackett.

  "Listen, the soldiers come and asked-and asked," she said impatiently. "We ain’t seen him since-I coulda told them Leo wasn’t goin’ to stay at one thing long, and he never did like bein’ told what to do, no way. So he took off from the Army, so what? How did we know that, or figure it was some big crime?"

  "He was here?" asked Higgins.

  "Look, I told that sergeant or whatever he was, sure, Leo landed here, God, I dunno, way time gets away from you, it was about three weeks, a month back-he says he’s on leave, he only stayed overnight, he said he was goin’ up to ’Frisco. That’s all I know."

  Hackett and Higgins looked at each other and shrugged. Dead end. It could be that in the short time he was here Mullarkey had sold or given some cigarettes with that PX seal to somebody around here. He could have stayed right around here and been the X they were hunting. That was probably as close as they were going to get. But Higgins had caught the one word. "You said we, Mrs. Mullarkey. Your husband could back that up?"

  "Husband!" she said, and barked a laugh. "Just all I can do take care of myself, without some lazy man. I got shut of him years back. It’s enough I got two no-good boys, bring the cops down on me. But I got to say, Billy’s got some feelings, not like Leo-believe it or not he gives me some loot just the other day, though where the hell he got it I don’t know and can’t say I care, the way money goes these days-"

  "Billy?" said Hackett. "Is he here?"

  "Last I looked, watchin’ TV and drinkin’ the last o’ my beer. Cops!" said Mrs. Mullarkey bitterly. "That damn Leo! Always makin’ trouble-I could wish I’d never married that bum-" She stared resentfully at them as they came past her into the house.

  Billy Mullarkey was a big beefy young man in stained T-shirt and jeans, sprawled in an armchair wolfing pretzels and beer, watching a game show. He stared up at Hackett and Higgins, and the badge momentarily mesmerized him.

  "How about it, Bill?" said Hackett. "Leo gave you some cigarettes when he was here, didn’t he? You had them on you when you decided to find out if it was so, old Mrs. Faber kept lots of money around? You were up early, weren’t you? About seven-thirty that morning, you walked in there, she was just open, and you-"

  "What the hell are you talkin’ about?" asked Mrs. Mullarkey.

  Without saying a word, Billy stumbled up to his feet and ran blindly for the door. The two big men were more than a match for him, and wrestled him down before he got there. He began to swear, and then he started to cry, and as they hauled him up to his feet and got the cuffs on he sobbed, "It was all her fault, Goddamn it! I wouldn’t ’a’ hurt her, but she wouldn’t tell me where all the rest was-a lousy forty-two bucks I got-if she’d ’a’ told me I wouldn’t ’a’ hurt her-it was all her Goddamned fault-"

  EIGHT

  After they got him into the car they asked if he’d make a statement, and he said he wasn’t going to say nothing more, embellishing that with various obscenities, so they took him straight down to the Alameda jail. They had enough to get a warrant, and it was to be hoped the charge would stick. After it was passed to the D.A.’s office it was out of their hands.

  They got back to the office, nearly at the end of shift. Palliser and Conway were in, nobody else. "It almost had to go back to the restaurant," Conway was saying. "The time element. So this says so all over again, John. Between us we’ve talked to all the other witnesses, and what the hell do they all say?"

  "The boss here?" asked Hackett.

  "Oh, he took off." Palliser grinned. "Jase had a bright idea on Buford, and when I passed it on our Luis went all absentminded and wandered out-having the same hunch Jase had, I gather. I expect we’ll hear about it. Rich thinks we’ve got somewhere on Ames, which would be gratifying?

  "Well, what did we hear?" Conway flung himself back in the desk chair and lit a cigarette. "Talk about nebulous! Which wasn’t surprising, when Ames himself didn’t know he’d been stabbed, apparently. They said they didn’t notice him at all, or just casually saw him come in and sit down-a couple of them recognized him from seeing him there before, didn’t know him-why should anybody have noticed him? But the night watch got all the names and addresses down, and there they are all present and correct to talk to, until I come to this Tom Sawyer. Address turns out to be an empty lot. And all I say-"

  "Yes, and I’d agree with you," said Palliser. "It’s too late to do anything about it today, but I think we get back to Mallow on it, and see if Piggott or Shogart can give us any description. You look self-satisfied," he added to Hackett. "Been doing any good?"

  "Breaking a case. The Faber thing. Routine does sometimes pay off
. What was Jase’s little idea?"

  "Interesting," said Palliser thoughtfully. "At least our Luis thought so."

  ***

  Mr. Sam McAllister was about sixty-five, tall and angular, with a few wisps of gray hair. He was retired from the personnel department of The Broadway department store. He was regarding Mendoza rather sheepishly, and he said, "Now how’d you come to hear about that?"

  "Mr. Reinke was annoyed," said Mendoza, grinning back at him. "Never mind. Did you do any good?"

  "Well, Millie was annoyed too," said McAllister, involuntarily looking over his shoulder toward the kitchen where an emphatic banging of pans betrayed Millie’s presence. This was a neat little stucco house in the middle of an old block of neat homes, minute lawns in front. "Not too bad, I come out a little ahead. Lordy, but I don’t know when I’ve done such a thing, not in years. We all kind of got carried away, I suppose. Old Charlie fussing about it being illegal-guess he had a point. Tell you one thing, I was bushed when I got home that night-not so young as I used to be!" He laughed.

  "Your nephew was in on it too, wasn’t he? Reinke said, a young sailor."

  McAllister nodded. "Young Ted Nygard, my niece’s boy. Dropped a little too-I was sorry about that later. He just joined up a while back, green kid from the farm, it was his first leave out here. He’s on a cruiser, real proud of it."

  He added the name; he looked at Mendoza with some belated caution; at first he’d just been glad of an audience. "Did I understand, you’re with the state board, something to do with Charlie’s license? Lordy, he did say something, but I just never thought-I sure hope you aren’t going to blame Charlie. It was all my fault we got started, come to think."