It was a quiet street in Bay City, if there are any quiet streets in this beatnik generation when you can’t get through a meal without some male or female stomach-singer belching out a kind of love that is as old-fashioned as a bustle or some Hammond organ jazzing it up in the customer’s soup.
The little one-story house was as neat as a fresh pinafore. The front lawn was cut lovingly and very green. The smooth composition driveway was free of grease spots from standing cars, and the hedge that bordered it looked as though the barber came every day.
The white door had a knocker with a tiger’s head, a go-to-hell window, and a dingus that let someone inside talk to someone outside without even opening the little window.
I’d have given a mortgage on my left leg to live in a house like that. I didn’t think I ever would.
The bell chimed inside and after a while she opened the door in a pale-blue sports shirt and white shorts that were short enough to be friendly. She had gray-blue eyes, dark red hair, and fine bones in her face. There was usually a trace of bitterness in the gray-blue eyes. She couldn’t forget that her father’s life had been destroyed by the crooked power of a gamblingship mobster, that her mother had died too.
She was able to suppress the bitterness when she wrote nonsense about young love for the shiny magazines, but this wasn’t her life. She didn’t really have a life. She had an existence without much pain and enough money to make it safe. But in a tight spot she was as cool and resourceful as a good cop. Her name was Anne Riordan.
She stood to one side and I passed her pretty close. But I have rules too. She shut the door and parked herself on a sofa and went through the cigarette routine, and here was one doll who had the strength to light her own cigarette.
I stood looking around. There were a few changes, not many.
“I need your help,” I said.
“The only time I ever see you.”
“I’ve got a client who is an ex-hood, used to be a troubleshooter for the Outfit, the Syndicate, the big mob, or whatever name you want to use for it. You know damn well it exists and is as rich as Midas. You can’t beat it because not enough people want to, especially the million-a-year lawyers who work for it.”
“My God, are you running for office somewhere? I never heard you sound so pure.”
She moved her legs around, not provocatively—she wasn’t the type—but it made it difficult for me to think straight just the same.
“Stop moving your legs around,” I said. “Or put a pair of slacks on.”
“Damn you, Marlowe. Can’t you think of anything else?”
“I’ll try. I like to think that I know at least one pretty and charming female who doesn’t have round heels.” I swallowed and went on. “The man’s name is Ikky Rossen. He’s not beautiful and he’s not anything that I like—except one thing. He got mad when I said I needed a girl helper. He said women were not made for the rough stuff. That’s why I took the job. To a real mobster, a woman means no more than a sack of flour. They use women in the usual way, but if it’s advisable to get rid of them they do it without a second thought.”
“So far you’ve told me a whole lot of nothing. Perhaps you need a cup of coffee or a drink.”
“You’re sweet but I don’t in the morning—except sometimes, and this isn’t one of them. Coffee later. Ikky has been penciled.”
“Now what’s that?”
“You have a list. You draw a line through a name with a pencil. The guy is as good as dead. The Outfit has reasons. They don’t do it just for kicks anymore. They don’t get any kick. It’s just bookkeeping to them.”
“What on earth can I do? I might even have said, what can you do?”
“I can try. What you can do is help me spot their plane and see where they go—the operators assigned to the job.”
“Yes, but how can you do anything?”
“I said I could try. If they took a night plane they are already here. If they took a morning plane they can’t be here before five or so. Plenty of time to get set. You know what they look like?”
“Oh, sure. I meet killers every day. I have them in for whiskey sours and caviar on hot toast.” She grinned. While she was grinning I took four long steps across the tan-figured rug and lifted her and put a kiss on her mouth. She didn’t fight me but she didn’t go all trembly either. I went back and sat down.
“They’ll look like anybody who’s in a quiet well-run business or profession. They’ll have quiet clothes and they’ll be polite—when they want to be. They’ll have briefcases with guns in them that have changed hands so often they can’t possibly be traced. When and if they do the job, they’ll drop the guns. They’ll probably use revolvers, but they could use automatics. They won’t use silencers because silencers can jam a gun and the weight makes it hard to shoot accurately. They won’t sit together on the plane, but once off of it they may pretend to know each other and simply not have noticed during the flight. They may shake hands with appropriate smiles and walk away and get in the same taxi. I think they’ll go in the same taxi. I think they’ll go to a hotel first. But very soon they will move into something from which they can watch Ikky’s movements and get used to his schedule. They won’t be in any hurry unless Ikky makes a move. That would tip them off that Ikky has been tipped off. He has a couple of friends left—he says.”
“Will they shoot him from this room or apartment across the street—assuming there is one?”
“No. They’ll shoot him from three feet away. They’ll walk up behind and say ‘Hello, Ikky.’ He’ll either freeze or turn. They’ll fill him with lead, drop the guns, and hop into the car they have waiting. Then they’ll follow the crash car off the scene.”
“Who’ll drive the crash car?”
“Some well-fixed and blameless citizen who hasn’t been rapped. He’ll drive his own car. He’ll clear the way, even if he has to accidentally on purpose crash somebody, even a police car. He’ll be so damn sorry he’ll cry all the way down his mongrammed shirt. And the killers will be long gone.”
“Good heavens,” Anne said. “How can you stand your life? If you do bring it off, they’ll send operators after you.”
“I don’t think so. They don’t kill a legit. The blame will go to the operators. Remember, these top mobsters are businessmen. They want lots and lots of money. They only get really tough when they figure they have to get rid of somebody, and they don’t crave that. There’s always a chance of a slipup. Not much of a chance. No gang killing has ever been solved here or anywhere else except two or three times. The top mobster is awful big and awful tough. When he gets too big, too tough—pencil.”
She shuddered a little. “I think I need a drink myself.”
I grinned at her. “You’re right in the atmosphere, darling. I’ll weaken.”
She brought a couple of Scotch highballs. When we were drinking them I said, “If you spot them or think you spot them, follow to where they go—if you can do it safely. Not otherwise. If it’s a hotel—and ten to one it will be—check in and keep calling me until you get me.”
She knew my office number and I was still on Yucca Avenue. She knew that too.
“You’re the damnedest guy,” she said. “Women do anything you want them to. How come I’m still a virgin at twenty-eight?”
“We need a few like you. Why don’t you get married?”
“To what? Some cynical chaser who has nothing left? I don’t know any really nice men—except you. I’m no pushover for white teeth and a gaudy smile.”
I went over and pulled her to her feet. I kissed her long and hard. “I’m honest,” I almost whispered. “That’s something. But I’m too shop-soiled for a girl like you. I’ve thought of you, I’ve wanted you, but that sweet clear look in your eyes tells me to lay off.”
“Take me,” she said softly. “I have dreams too.”
“I couldn’t. I’ve had too many women to deserve one like you. We have to save a man’s life. I’m going.”
She stood up
and watched me leave with a grave face.
The women you get and the women you don’t get—they live in different worlds. I don’t sneer at either world. I live in both myself.
At Los Angeles International Airport you can’t get close to the planes unless you’re leaving on one. You see them land, if you happen to be in the right place, but you have to wait at a barrier to get a look at the passengers. The airport buildings don’t make it any easier. They are strung out from here to breakfast time, and you can get calluses walking from TWA to American.
I copied an arrival schedule off the boards and prowled around like a dog that has forgotten where he put his bone. Planes came in, planes took off, porters carried luggage, passengers sweated and scurried, children whined, the loudspeaker overrode all the other noises.
I passed Anne a number of times. She took no notice of me.
At 5:45 they must have come. Anne disappeared. I gave it half an hour, just in case she had some other reason for fading. No. She was gone for good. I went out to my car and drove some long crowded miles to Hollywood and my office. I had a drink and sat. At 6:45 the phone rang.
“I think so,” she said. “Beverly-Western Hotel. Room 410. I couldn’t get any names. You know the clerks don’t leave registration cards lying around these days. I didn’t like to ask any questions. But I rode up in the elevator with them and spotted their room. I walked right on past them when the bellman put a key in their door, and went down to the mezzanine and then downstairs with a bunch of women from the tea room. I didn’t bother to take a room.”
“What were they like?”
“They came up the ramp together but I didn’t hear them speak. Both had briefcases, both wore quiet suits, nothing flashy. White shirts, starched, one blue tie, one black striped with gray. Black shoes. A couple of businessmen from the East Coast. They could be publishers, lawyers, doctors, account executives—no, cut the last; they weren’t gaudy enough. You wouldn’t look at them twice.”
“Faces?”
“Both medium-brown hair, one a bit darker than the other. Smooth faces, rather expressionless. One had gray eyes, the one with the lighter hair had blue eyes. Their eyes were interesting. Very quick to move, very observant, watching everything near them. That might have been wrong. They should have been a bit preoccupied with what they came out for or interested in California. They seemed more occupied with faces. It’s a good thing I spotted them and not you. You don’t look like a cop, but you don’t look like a man who is not a cop. You have marks on you.”
“Phooey. I’m a damn good-looking heart wrecker.”
“Their features were strictly assembly line. Each picked up a flight suitcase. One suitcase was gray with two red and white stripes up and down, about six or seven inches from the ends, the other a blue and white tartan. I didn’t know there was such a tartan.”
“There is, but I forget the name of it.”
“I thought you knew everything.”
“Just almost everything. Run along home now.”
“Do I get a dinner and maybe a kiss?”
“Later, and if you’re not careful you’ll get more than you want.”
“You’ll take over and follow them?”
“If they’re the right men, they’ll follow me. I already took an apartment across the street from Ikky—that block on Poynter with six lowlife apartment houses on the block. I’ll bet the incidence of chippies is very high.”
“It’s high everywhere these days.”
“So long, Anne. See you.”
“When you need help.”
She hung up. I hung up. She puzzles me. Too wise to be so nice. I guess all nice women are wise too.
I called Ikky. He was out. I had a drink from the office bottle, smoked for half an hour, and called again. This time I got him.
I told him the score up to then, and said I hoped Anne had picked the right men. I told him about the apartment I had taken.
“Do I get expenses?” I asked.
“Five grand ought to cover the lot.”
“If I earn it and get it. I heard you had a quarter of a million,” I said at a wild venture.
“Could be, pal, but how do I get at it? The high boys know where it is. It’ll have to cool a long time.”
I said that was all right. I had cooled a long time myself. Of course, I didn’t expect to get the other four thousand, even if I brought the job off. Men like Ikky Rossen would steal their mother’s gold teeth. There seemed to be a little gold in him somewhere—but little was the operative word.
I spent the next half hour trying to think of a plan. I couldn’t think of one that looked promising. It was almost eight o’clock and I needed food. I didn’t think the boys would move that night. Next morning they would drive past Ikky’s place and scout the neighborhood.
I was ready to leave the office when the buzzer sounded from the door of my waiting room. I opened the communicating door. A small tight-looking man was standing in the middle of the floor rocking on his heels with his hands behind his back. He smiled at me, but he wasn’t good at it. He walked toward me.
“You Philip Marlowe?”
“Who else? What can I do for you?”
He was close now. He brought his right hand around fast with a gun in it. He stuck the gun in my stomach.
“You can lay off Ikky Rossen,” he said in a voice that matched his face, “or you can get your belly full of lead.”
He was an amateur. If he had stayed four feet away, he might have had something. I reached up and took the cigarette out of my mouth and held it carelessly.
“What makes you think I know any Ikky Rossen?”
He laughed and pushed his gun into my stomach.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” The cheap sneer, the empty triumph of that feeling of power when you hold a fat gun in a small hand.
“It would be fair to tell me.”
As his mouth opened for another crack, I dropped the cigarette and swept a hand. I can be fast when I have to. There are boys that are faster, but they don’t stick guns in your stomach.
I got my thumb behind the trigger and my hand over his. I kneed him in the groin. He bent over with a whimper. I twisted his arm to the right and I had his gun. I hooked a heel behind his heel and he was on the floor.
He lay there blinking with surprise and pain, his knees drawn up against his stomach. He rolled from side to side groaning. I reached down and grabbed his left hand and yanked him to his feet. I had six inches and forty pounds on him. They ought to have sent a bigger, better-trained messenger.
“Let’s go into my thinking parlor,” I said. “We could have a chat and you could have a drink to pick you up. Next time don’t get near enough to a prospect for him to get your gun hand. I’ll just see if you have any more iron on you.”
He hadn’t. I pushed him through the door and into a chair. His breath wasn’t quite so rasping. He grabbed out a handkerchief and mopped at his face.
“Next time,” he said between his teeth. “Next time.”
“Don’t be an optimist. You don’t look the part.”
I poured him a drink of Scotch in a paper cup, set it down in front of him. I broke his .38 and dumped the cartridges into the desk drawer. I clicked the chamber back and laid the gun down.
“You can have it when you leave—if you leave.”
“That’s a dirty way to fight,” he said, still gasping.
“Sure. Shooting a man is so much cleaner. Now, how did you get here?”
“Nuts.”
“Don’t be a fool. I have friends. Not many, but some. I can get you for armed assault, and you know what would happen then. You’d be out on a writ or on bail and that’s the last anyone would hear of you. The biggies don’t go for failures. Now who sent you and how did you know where to come?”
“Ikky was covered,” he said sullenly. “He’s dumb. I trailed him here without no trouble at all. Why would he go see a private eye? People want to know.”
“More.”<
br />
“Go to hell.”
“Come to think of it, I don’t have to get you for armed assault. I can smash it out of you right here and now.”
I got up from the chair and he put out a flat hand.
“If I get knocked about, a couple of real tough monkeys will drop around. If I don’t report back, same thing. You ain’t holding no real high cards. They just look high,” he said.
“You haven’t anything to tell. If this Ikky came to see me, you don’t know why, nor whether I took him on. If he’s a mobster, he’s not my type of client.”
“He come to get you to try and save his hide.”
“Who from?”
“That’d be talking.”
“Go right ahead. Your mouth seems to work fine. And tell the boys any time I front for a hood, that will be the day.”
You have to lie a little once in a while in my business. I was lying a little. “What’s Ikky done to get himself disliked? Or would that be talking?”
“You think you’re a lot of man,” he sneered, rubbing the place where I had kneed him. “In my league you wouldn’t make pinch runner.”
I laughed in his face. Then I grabbed his right wrist and twisted it behind his back. He began to squawk. I reached into his breast pocket with my left hand and hauled out a wallet. I let him go. He reached for his gun on the desk and I bisected his upper arm with a hard cut. He fell into the customer’s chair and grunted.
“You can have your gun,” I told him. “When I give it to you. Now be good or I’ll have to bounce you just to amuse myself.”
In the wallet I found a driver’s license made out to Charles Hickon. It did me no good at all. Punks of his type always have slangy aliases. They probably called him Tiny, or Slim, or Marbles, or even just “you.” I tossed the wallet back to him. It fell to the floor. He couldn’t even catch it.
“Hell,” I said, “there must be an economy campaign on, if they send you to do more than pick up cigarette butts.”
“Nuts.”
“All right, mug. Beat it back to the laundry. Here’s your gun.”
Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe Page 41