Operation Bamboozle

by Derek Robinson

  Murphy kept searching, kept climbing, kept pumping hopeful shots into the night. Eventually he reached the edge of this property and the beginning of the next. The boulders had been cleared; a lawn had been laid. As he walked into it he triggered an infrared alarm and floodlights swamped the lawn. Murphy was half-dazzled but he saw a figure lurking at the edge. It shouted, and Murphy crouched and aimed the revolver, so the property-owner, a retired police chief from Baltimore, shot him once in the head with a deer rifle, a gift from his wife on their silver wedding anniversary. Telescopic sights. Thirty yards. No wind. Piece of cake.

  They were eating coq au vin and still arguing about art, does it really exist, if so why, and what’s it worth, the whole thing’s a racket, when Luis said: “Forget Ma Chandler, I’ll buy the paintings and Julie can write the great American novel, it’s a dirty job but somebody has to do it.” Julie said that was bullshit, he didn’t have the money, Princess sawed off another hunk of chicken breast, Luis said he did have the money, or would soon, because he owned part of an oil well that would pump dollars night and day, and the gunfire began outside.

  They turned out the lights and went to a window. The night told them nothing. The shots were sporadic. They seemed to move away, and then they ended. “Cattle stampede,” Princess suggested. “Cowboys turnin’ the herd afore the critters plunge to their doom.”

  “What d’you mean, you own an oil well?” Julie asked.

  “That last shot,” Fitzroy said. “That was no handgun. That was heavy. Sporting rifle of some kind.”

  “Look at that hillside,” Feet said. “Black on black. A hundred Apache could be hiding there. Your man Murphy did a dumb thing.”

  Lutz wound down a window. “We should go,” he said. The car heater was blowing hard.

  “He’s right. Forget Blanco,” Fitzroy said. “We’ll pick him up tomorrow. Murphy can look after himself. There’s nothing left for us here.”

  “Oh, I think there is. There’s still Cabrillo.”

  They got into the car and drove up to the house. The Chrysler was standing there. Fitzroy went to look at the plates. The air was chilly, and all this moving from hot to cold was not good for Lutz’s aging bladder. Too much stress didn’t help it, either. Fitzroy came back. “Jersey plates,” he said. Lutz shuddered. “I gotta piss, Tony,” he said, but too late. Feet was knocking on the door. Lutz’s left hand was in his pants pocket, clenching the leaky hosepipe inside his Jockey shorts.

  Luis opened the door. “Mr. Cabrillo?” Feet said. “We are seeking your support for Colonel Henry Spencer.” He gestured at Lutz. “Republican candidate for Congress. May we come in?” Luis hesitated. “We live in perilous times, Mr. Cabrillo. Your vote counts. Our nation needs staunch leaders, men of guts and gallantry.”

  “Can I use your bathroom?” Lutz asked.

  Luis waved them in, and led the way. “This is Colonel Spencer,” he announced. “He wants us to help him fight the good fight in Washington. As it happens, colonel, we ourselves did some skirmishing on the DC battlefield not so long ago. How d’you feel about Senator Joe McCarthy?”

  “Bathroom,” Lutz said. His voice cracked with desperation. Julie pointed. “Third on the right,” she said.

  Lutz hurried from the room. His tubes were hurting, his grip was weakening, he forgot whether she’d said right or left and he gambled on left, opened the door and fumbled for the light switch. Bedroom. Woman in bed. Christ, what a nightmare. Before he could turn she sat up and said, “Eugene Lutz. Whatcha want, you old goat?” One shock too many. He panicked and grabbed the automatic, the dumbest thing he could do but who said panic was smart? Stevie jumped out of bed, stark naked, the first totally naked woman he had seen in twenty-three years and the most beautiful naked woman he had ever seen, and the stress was too much. A jet of hot urine soaked his left leg. “Get back!” he said and pointed the gun-butt. He was holding the weapon by the barrel. He began crying. She took the gun from him.

  Tony Feet was trying to get the measure of Cabrillo. What kind of hitman lived with two broads and wore cowboy boots and talked like Cary Grant’s kid brother? Maybe the best, for that very reason. “Am I right in thinking you’re from New Jersey, Mr. Cabrillo? A fine State. Staunch supporter of the right to bear arms …” That was when Stevie came in. She was wearing somebody’s sweater that barely reached her thighs and poking Lutz in the ribs with his own automatic. “He ain’t house-trained,” she said. “Any offers?”

  Instantly, Feet and Fitzroy had guns in their hands, pointing at Luis and Stevie. “Put the shooters away,” Stevie said. “I know these guys, they’re kosher, and I know you, you’re Tony Feet, out of Chicago. He’s middle-management,” she told Luis, “they don’t get their hands dirty, they got more class, Sam Giancana wouldn’t approve.”

  Feet lowered the gun. “We met?” he asked cautiously.

  “She’s Stevie Fantoni,” Julie said. “Of the New York Fantonis.”

  “I was at the Middle West Convention, 1951,” Stevie said. “Dad took me, Jerome Fantoni. Lakeside Hotel, Illinois. You danced with me. Your wife didn’t like it.”

  “Sure, sure. I remember.” By now the guns had disappeared. “You were dressed different then.” Everyone laughed except Eugene Lutz. He found an upright chair and sat on the edge. He hadn’t wet himself so thoroughly since he was five. “Can we go?” he asked quietly.

  “None of my business,” Luis said, “but what the dickens are you all doing here?”

  “Misunderstanding,” Feet said. “Mistaken identity. You got confused with an operator was supposed to do a number on Frankie Blanco, and—”

  “Hold it there,” Stevie said. “Blanco’s dead. He was a floater in Lake Michigan, way back.”

  “Forget that. Mistaken identity.”

  “Gee,” Julie said. “Identity isn’t as reliable as it used to be.”

  “Was that you out there,” Princess asked, “going bang-bang-bang?”

  “Chinese New Year,” Fitzroy said. He was tired of standing at the edge and being ignored.

  Outside, a siren wound down slowly as a car cruised up the drive. “I’d appreciate it if we could go back to Republican campaigning,” Feet said. Luis went to the front door and welcomed two detectives from the El Paso Police Department. “We may be a little short of chairs,” he said.

  6

  Dan Brennan was the senior detective available when the shooting was called in. Violence was rare on Cliff Boulevard: most of the residents were too rich, too happy, too old. They raged if the garbage truck left broken eggshells in the drive; otherwise, life was tranquil. Brennan got there in twelve minutes. He recognized what was left of Murphy’s face, and he heard the retired Baltimore police chief’s story. It seemed the serious shooting all began in the next property, so Brennan went there and nobody knew anything.

  “You heard the shots?” he said.

  “Were those shots?” Feet said. “Sounded like backfires to me. Someone had a hole in their muffler.”

  “These walls are thick,” Luis said.

  “You got your Mexicans over in Juárez,” Fitzroy said. “You get your Mex celebration going, your Mex firecrackers start banging, your wind’s in this direction …”

  Brennan questioned them each separately, in another room. It didn’t take long. They were all friends, or friends of friends, gathered together for an evening of conversation.

  He saved Fitzroy for last. “You know me, Fitz. I certainly know you. Cliff Boulevard is kind of out of your league, ain’t it? Kind of classy for a two-bit hustler like you?”

  “A man’s entitled to a private life, captain. That’s in the Bill of Rights somewhere.”

  “Sure. And it’s in the Constitution that coincidence stinks. We found your boy Murphy a hundred yards from here with Billy the Kid’s revolver in his hand and a slug in his head. Explain that.”

  “Young Murphy?” Fitzroy made a pained expression and shook his head. “I’m mortified.”

  Brennan smiled. “No, you
’re not, Fitz. Murphy’s the one got mortified. You were fortified, by coffee and cookies. In here. Allegedly.”

  Fitzroy shook his head to convey sadness. “A hero in Korea. Smart, keen, popular. I wish—”

  Brennan hit him across the face, just a flick of the fingers, twice, left and right. “Don’t waste my time, Fitz. Murphy didn’t walk here from town. Neither did you. Your car’s outside. We’ll find his prints in it.” A knock at the door. A uniformed cop came and whispered in his ear. Brennan stood up. “Stiff number two, even closer to home,” he said. “Let’s you and me go see if it’s anyone else you might know.”

  The hillside flickered with the wandering beams of flashlights. The uniform went ahead and they took a twisting route between boulders as big as sleeping elephants. A ring of men held electric lanterns to illuminate a body that was lying face-down in a patch of gorse. Wild bramble was still trapped around one leg. A photographer’s flashlight briefly turned everything white; then the man moved to get a different angle.

  The medical examiner’s cigar smoke drifted in and out of the brightness. “Here’s how they found him, Dan,” he said. “Hasn’t been touched. Say when and we’ll turn him over.”

  Brennan circled the body. “Okay, go ahead.”

  It took four cops to do the job, what with the gorse and the bramble and the weight. Half of Frankie Blanco’s face seemed pleased to see them: his lips were dragged back in a big grin. The other half looked terrified. The eyes were bloodshot and they bulged painfully. After one glance, no-one wanted to look at the eyes.

  The examiner worked fast. “Subject to the usual caveats,” he said, “I can see no evidence of assault. I’m told there was gunfire, right? Well, none of it caused this death.”

  “So what’s your best guess?” Brennan said.

  The examiner got his cigar working again. “Heavy smoker,” he said. “Look at the nicotine fingers. Overweight, look at the belly. Presumably he was climbing this slope. My best guess? Heart attack. But I’ll have to look inside to be certain of it. Can I get back to my poker game now?”

  Brennan and Fitzroy clambered up to the house.

  “Sometimes I am so brilliant I terrify myself,” Brennan said. “Your kid Murphy chased our John Doe up that hillside, didn’t he? He blazed away and missed, his Hollywood cannon being not the ideal weapon on a black night in these badlands. It scared poor John, though, and he ran too hard, and his motor blew up. Anything to add?”

  Fitzroy was silent.

  “Now your kid Murphy gets lost. Wanders onto the next property, which is owned by a retired cop, no mean shot, at whom Murphy waves his trusty six-shooter, which is like blowing your own brains out. They make a fine pair: John Doe’s body and kid Murphy’s brains. We should bury them together in the same box. You gonna pay?”

  Fitzroy shook his head.

  “Cliff Boulevard, for Chrissake. The mayor lives here. There’s a retired admiral here. A judge, a surgeon, God knows how many lawyers. You must have cement for brains. See me tomorrow.”

  Brennan went into the house. “You’re all free to go. You especially,” he told Tony Feet. “Hurry back to Chicago. Our climate doesn’t suit you. And you,” he said to Lutz, “you should be ashamed, at your age, mixing with suicides.” That got everybody’s attention. “Two bodies in the bushes. One went looking for trouble and it found him. The other had a heart attack that would kill a moose, not surprising considering he measured bigger around the belly than your average moose. Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Conroy.”

  “I’ve had a thought, captain,” Luis said. “We’re new to your city but as it happens I know a lawyer who can vouch for me. James de Courcy, of Maclean, de Courcy and Gould.” Brennan gave him a long look. “He’s known me for ages,” Luis said. “Colleagues, during the war.”

  “We’ll go and see him.”

  Luis gave him a short look. “It’s gone ten. He won’t be in his office. You can always call him tomorrow.”

  “No, we’ll go and see him now.”

  “I’ll come too,” Julie said. “I played tennis with James. He’s nice. You’ll like him.” Brennan’s eyes widened, briefly. He was not accustomed to meeting nice people so late at night.

  As his car reached the road, an ambulance was being loaded. “Feel like taking a look at the heart attack?” Brennan said. “Maybe you know him.”

  Julie watched them go. A medic lifted the sheet, and they looked and they came back: a scene from so many cop movies that all it needed was a soundtrack. A weary tenor sax would do. Even the slow throb of a string bass. “Total stranger,” Luis told her.

  After that, nobody spoke until they reached the 777 building.

  “Bet you a dollar he’s not up there,” Luis said.

  “Cops don’t gamble,” Brennan said. “It might corrupt us.”

  The elevator boosted them comfortably to the fifteenth floor. The doors slid open and there was nothing to see except a clump of people. No desks, no chairs, no telephones, no bookshelves, no file cabinets, no framed diplomas on the walls. “He’s gone,” Luis said. He walked into de Courcy’s office. Nothing remained. The thick redwood desk had gone, and the rows of leatherbound lawbooks, and the portrait photographs of members of the Supreme Court looking pretty damn sure of themselves. He came back. “There was an old brass nameplate here,” he said. “It stood right here. Polished so that it shone.”

  “Never put your faith in brass nameplates,” Brennan said.

  “How could he just …” Luis couldn’t bring himself to finish.

  “Where are the other two?” Julie asked. “Maclean and Gould?”

  “Don’t exist,” Brennan said.

  “He told me they were in court,” Luis said. “Arguing cases. In Dallas. And Houston.”

  “I guess you didn’t check with the Texas Bar Association,” Brennan said. “No, most people don’t.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Luis said. “James was one of us. He worked for British Counter Intelligence against the Russians. Got shot in the leg.”

  “Bad limp, huh? Do something for me, Mr. Cabrillo. Put this inside your shoe.” It was a half-dollar piece. Luis put it inside his shoe. “Now walk.” Luis limped away. “Pity and trust go hand-in-hand,” Brennan said. “When he wants, your pal James can move as well as you and me. Faster, sometimes.”

  Luis gave the coin back.

  “How much did he take you for?” Julie asked.

  “Ten grand. But it’s for Freddie Garcia, to clinch a deal to buy an oil well. I’d trust Freddie with my life.”

  “Does he own Hanover Fields, by any chance?” Brennan asked. Luis flinched. “Doesn’t exist,” Brennan said. “See all these people? They bought a slice of it too. You paid cash?”

  “To help save Freddie’s bacon,” Luis said. “There was no time to …” He gave up.

  Julie asked Brennan: “How much d’you reckon de Courcy conned out of El Paso?”

  “We guess a quarter of a million. Tax free.”

  A police car took them home.

  “I nearly owned part of an oil well,” Luis said. “It was called Track 29. I thought it must be named after that song about the Chattanooga Choo-Choo. Pennsylvania Twenty-Nine Hundred.”

  “Sure. Train leaves from track 29,” Julie said. “Boy, won’t you give me a shine. You don’t know Penn Station, do you? Track 29 is a myth. Doesn’t exist.”

  Luis slumped until his chin was on his chest.

  “Can’t say he didn’t give you a sporting chance,” she said.

  The others were in bed. Luis was hungry. “Losing ten grand does that to a chap,” he said. “Funny, isn’t it?” He didn’t sound funny. He sounded bitter.

  “It’s ten grand you conned out of someone else. Now it’s been conned out of you.”

  “I gave them value for money. They went away happy. What have I got out of James blasted de bloody Courcy?”

  “He taught you a lesson, Luis. Never do the decent thing. It’s not your style.”

  H
e made scrambled eggs for them both, and they talked about the other events: the gunshots, the bodies, the strange idea that Luis was a hitman. None of it made sense; all of it suggested that the long arm of Fantoni was reaching out for them. Via Chicago. Why Chicago? It was baffling. Stevie Fantoni came in, yawning. “I smelled food,” she said. “Ain’t had much real grub in a week.”

  “Answer me one thing and you’ll get a steak,” Julie said. “Why is your dad giving us such a hard time? We never hurt him.”

  “You got his Chrysler.”

  “Borrowed!” Luis cried. “His idea! Take it back!”

  “An’ he thinks you whacked a couple of the family.”

  “That’s crazy,” Julie said. “We never whacked anyone.”

  “Maybe he thinks semi-whacked,” Stevie said. “They ended up dead anyways. I told him no, you ain’t that sort, waste of breath, him not bein’ a kind person, that’s the way he thinks, not nice. Ungenerous. I take after the other side of the family. You want a steak?” she said to Princess, who was leaning in the doorway.

  “Count me in. With eggs too. What’s all the noise about?”

  “We’re leaving here,” Luis said. “It’s become too dangerous.”

  “California,” Julie said. “Los Angeles. Tomorrow.” Luis looked at her, amazed. “I knew before you did,” she said. “Let’s hit the hay. This carnage on the doorstep is very tiring.”

  “He’s one hell of a stud,” Stevie told Princess. “Trust me, I know. When we lived in DC, I saw him in the nude.” The grill began to sizzle.

  “You eat a lot of steak, don’t you?” Luis said.

  “Well, we have all these cows,” Princess said. “Seems like a good arrangement.”

  “Semi-nude,” Stevie said. “I know men, I married three times, everyone a flat battery.”

  “You’re death in the sack,” Julie said. “Those truckdrivers had a lucky escape.”

  CALIFORNICATION