Leave a Message for Willie

by Marcia Muller

  “What kinds of things does Willie put up with?”

  “Oh, like Sam not showing for work. You know, the shit that would get you fired from any regular job.”

  “I see. What about Monty Adair? Are he and Willie friends?”

  “Hell, no. Monty’s too slick for Willie; Willie doesn’t trust him any farther than he can throw him. I’ll say this for Willie, though, he gives credit where credit is due. He always says Monty’s the best man he’s got.”

  “How do you feel about him saying that?”

  “Doesn’t bother me. I’m okay at the job, but I’m no Monty. And for me it’s only a weekend job to clean up the bills Barbara stuck me with.”

  “But you worked for Willie before you married Barbara, didn’t you?”

  “Oh yeah. I met her because I was working for Willie. When I first took the job it was so I could buy a boat. But then I fell for Barbara and the money all went for cars and clothes and furniture. All bought on time, and still not paid off.” Beck looked away, out the window at the grimy buildings along Grand Avenue.

  “How come Willie kept you on, after you took his wife away from him?”

  “That’s his way of doing things. It saved his pride, made it look like she didn’t matter to him.”

  “Maybe she didn’t.”

  “Maybe.”

  “To get back to Monty, how would you say he feels about Willie?”

  “About the same as most of the people on the flea market scene.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “Well, they respect him. He’s a sharp trader, knows how to deal. But he’s never fit in and he doesn’t have any friends.”

  Except Alida Edwards, I thought.

  “No,” Beck went on, “Willie was never a friend to any of us, not the way the rest of us were friends, back in the old days.”

  “The rest of you?”

  “Monty, Mack, myself. We used to have real good times.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Drinking beer, chasing women, playing games.”

  I looked over at him. He was smiling reminiscently. “What kinds of games?”

  “We’d shoot some pool, go fishing, play war.”

  “War?”

  “Yeah. Like go out in the country and play the National Survival Game.”

  I’d seen something about the National Survival Game in the paper recently. “You mean where adults play capture-the-flag with toy guns?”

  Beck frowned. “It’s not that simple. I mean, it’s a real sport, with a manual and all. There’s a national organization, and they have playing fields in most of the states, Canada too. And the guns aren’t toys.”

  Now I frowned. “They’re not?”

  “No. You turn right here.”

  I did as he directed, driving along the boulevard that bordered Lake Merritt. “What are they then? You don’t use real bullets, do you?”

  “Of course not. They’re paint guns, shoot pellets the size of marbles, full of yellow paint. When you’re hit, you yell ‘paint check,’ and one of the officials comes up and makes sure it’s a legal hit.”

  Paint. I remembered the gun in Mack Marchetti’s living room display case, the one he’d said was for marking stock on ranches. I’d been about to ask him why he had one when the phone had rung and Selena had told him about Alida’s murder.

  “And if it’s a legal hit?” I said.

  “You’re out of the game, same as if you’re dead.”

  “Oh.” The concept of grown men running around and shooting one another with paint was faintly ridiculous. “What’s the object of all this?”

  “To capture the other team’s flag. They give you a battle map, showing you where it’s at, and whichever side gets to the other’s flag first wins.”

  “It sounds like cowboys and Indians to me.”

  Beck rolled his eyes. “Women never understand these things.”

  “Explain it to me, then.”

  “The game is a good release for tensions. The way the world is today, you need that. Take me: This morning I go in and they load up the truck. They short me on one order. The guy at the restaurant where I’m delivering yells at me, like I loaded the truck personally. Christ, he acted like I’d baked the stuff! Can I yell back at him, though? No. He’s the customer; the customers always right.”

  “So I go back to the bakery. I complain about being shorted. The shift boss doesn’t listen. Can I yell at him for not listening? Not if I want to keep my job. Can I yell at the guy who shorted me? I don’t even know who did it, and anyway he’s gone for the day. So what do I have? Tension. What can I do about it? Nothing.”

  “So what you’re saying is that the Survival Game is good therapy.”

  “Yeah. You’re out there, you got your gun, you’re equal to any of the other players. You can do something about things for a change. You’re somebody, you’ve got power.”

  “Does it cost a lot to play?”

  “Maybe forty bucks. There’s an entry fee, and you’ve got to rent your fatigues and goggles and gun. Some guys, like Mack, cut the cost by owning their own gear – but it’s got to be regulation.”

  “Does anyone else from the flea markets besides you and Mack play the game?”

  “Sure. Monty, about five, six of the other vendors. Even some women played.”

  “Selena Gonzalez?”

  “Nah, not that I know of.”

  “What about Alida?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “And not Willie?”

  “Never Willie. It used to piss him off that we played, because we’d take weekends off from the markets to do it.”

  “Where do you play?”

  “Like I said, there are places in practically every state. We used to go to one in Contra Costa County, near Mount Diablo. You need a lot of room, and it’s got to be kind of rough country for it to be any fun.”

  “I’ve never noticed any of these places.”

  “Well, they don’t exactly stick up a sign. While it’s just a game, it’s not a spectator sport. I mean, somebody could get hurt if they got in the players’ way.”

  “So how do you find out where to play?”

  “There’s a directory you can buy. You better turn right here.”

  I signaled and started up the hill, which was honeycombed with old stucco apartments and rooming houses. “So you and Monty and Mack play at this place in Contra Costa County.”

  “I do; they don’t anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged, uncomfortable. “A couple of years ago they found some place else closer to home.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s my driveway there.”

  The house was two stories, green stucco with a red tile roof. Its small yard was unkempt and the hydrangeas in the flower beds were browning and badly in need of water. A sign in the front window advertised ROOMS TO LET. I turned in and stopped. “Why didn’t you start playing at the new place with them?”

  He shrugged again. “They wanted a rougher game, something more challenging. I wasn’t up for that. Besides, I didn’t like who they were playing with.”

  “Who was it?”

  “That Jew-boy who got himself shot in Willie’s garage. I couldn’t take him, and it’s not because I’m prejudiced against Jews, either. I mean, I got plenty of Jewish friends. I’m not prejudiced at all – not like Mack and Monty.”

  It surprised me so much that I let out the clutch and stalled the car. “Jerry Levin, is that who you mean?”

  “Yeah. Jerry was Monty and Mack’s big buddy for a while there. I couldn’t stand him myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was one vicious little motherfucker. I mean, when he played those games, it was like he was playing for real. I got the feeling he liked to see people get hurt.” He paused, his hand on the door handle. “Funny.”

  “What’s funny?”

  “Well, Mack and Monty are a couple of the most prejudiced guys I know
. I mean, they hated Jerry Levin and only hung around him because he had money. But now that I think back on Levin, I realize he was even more bigoted than them. He hated everybody, no matter what their race or religion was. Hell, he even hated his own people.”

  “Wait a minute – you say Levin had money?”

  “That’s what I gathered from what Mack and Monty told me. You see, they wanted to open their own game, break away from the national organization and form a new one that would play a tougher, harder game. I think Levin either had the money to do it, or else knew how to get it.”

  I stared at Beck, stunned. Of course. Jerry Levin may not have had the money, but he did know how to get his hands on it. How it must have amused a trio of bigots like Marchetti, Adair and Levin to finance what was basically a right-wing sport with the proceeds from Torahs stolen from Jewish congregations.

  19.

  Before I let Beck get out of the car, I remembered to ask him if he’d duplicated any keys at the flea market recently. He looked genuinely puzzled and said he certainly hadn’t. I believed him; there was no reason Beck would put himself out for Jerry Levin, who had intruded on his formerly good-natured beer-buddy friendship with Marchetti and Adair. I left him standing next to a wilted hydrangea bush in the front yard, looking confused at my abrupt question and even more abrupt departure.

  I drove rapidly toward San Francisco and All Souls, glad the rush-hour traffic was headed the other way. Details of the case were whirling around in my mind. I still had the problem of how Levin got into Willie’s house. And add to that the image of grown men playing a lunatic sport in the hills of Contra Costa County. Grown men shooting at each other with yellow paint pellets…

  All Souls was quiet when I got there, and Ted sat at the reception desk doing one of his ever-present crossword puzzles.

  “Five-letter word that’s a prefix for ‘backward,’” he called as I passed him.

  “’Retro,’” I said and kept going toward Hank’s office. I myself was not bad at puzzles.

  Hank sat at his desk, feet propped on a bottom drawer, a brief in one hand. He looked up as I came in, then took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Any news?”

  “Some, but I haven’t figured out what it means yet. Can I use your phone?”

  He motioned toward it. I picked up the receiver and called the Oasis Bar and Grill. The background noise was overpowering; business must be good on this Tuesday evening. I asked if Willie had picked up my message. He had, the man said. I left the same one, knowing all the while that the fence would disregard it in the way he had my others.

  Then I phoned my answering service. They had a message from Willie. It said, “I’m getting closer.”

  “Terrific. I wish I was.” I slammed the receiver down and went over too Hank’s stack of the San Francisco Chronicle. It was about three feet high and went back several weeks.

  “What are you doing?” Hank asked, putting his glasses back on.

  “Looking for an article on the National Survival Game.”

  “Try April, around the thirteenth.”

  “Thanks.” It didn’t even surprise me anymore when he did that. Hank was a media junkie and had a copious memory for dates and figures. I was pulling the right issue out of the stack – it was the fifteenth; he’d only been off by two days – when the intercom buzzed. Hank answered it, then held the receiver out to me. “Call for you.”

  It was Rabbi David Halpert. “Was the information I gave your associate all right?” he asked.

  “What information?”

  “About what you and Ben Cohen and I discussed yesterday.”

  “What associate?”

  “A Hank Zahn. He said he was working with you and wanted to check some details. We went over the whole conversation, and he said he’d get back to me with some further questions, but I haven’t heard. He also spoke briefly with Ben.”

  “When was this?”

  “Around two o’clock.”

  I glanced over at Hank, who had gone back to reading the brief. At two o’clock Hank had been in court.

  Willie.

  “I hope the information agreed with what we talked about,” Halpert said anxiously. “He asked a lot of questions, as if he was afraid I’d left something out.”

  “No, the information was just fine. I asked Mr…Zahn to verify it because sometimes I don’t trust my memory.”

  Hank looked up, curious.

  “I saw where there was another killing,” Halpert said.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you investigating that one too?”

  “In a way. Thanks for giving Mr. Zahn the information, David. I’ll let you know how the case turns out.” I handed the receiver back to Hank.

  “What information am I supposed to have verified for you?” he asked.

  “You, in the person of Willie Whelan, got the details on Jerry Levin from Rabbi Halpert.”

  “You mean Willie impersonated me?”

  “I’m willing to bet he did.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Hank tossed the brief on the desk. “He still thinks he’s a detective.”

  “Yes. And he’s going about it in a very logical, methodical manner. Maybe he missed his calling.”

  Then I sat down and started reading the article on the National Survival Game. Hank got up and left the office. I suspected he was going down the hill to his favorite sleazy bar – the Remedy Lounge – for a shot or two of Scotch.

  The article confirmed what Roger Beck had told me. The game was the brainchild of some East Coast types who had later quit their jobs and incorporated, selling franchises all over the country. Around ten thousand people played it weekly in the United States and Canada. There was an official manual and national championships. Experts had various opinions on it, ranging from benign attitudes of indulgence to outright alarm. One man had likened it to a “real live video game.” And, like the manufacturers of video games, people were getting rich off the survival game, selling everything from military fatigues to paint guns.

  I seemed to be hearing a lot about guns these days. There was the .22 that had killed Levin…Selena’s “plinker,” now in the possession of Willie…Mack Marchetti’s Nel-Spot 007…Fat Herman’s sinister stock…Monty Adair’s frequent visits to the gun shop…Herman, saying “I’m not one of the Krupp family…”

  I jumped up and went down the hall to the reception area. Ted looked up and said, “Six-letter word meaning—”

  “Never mind. Listen, you pick up a lot of trivia through those puzzles, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me about the Krupp Arms Works.”

  “That’s not trivia. That’s big stuff.”

  “Big weapons, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Supplied most of the German arms during World War II?”

  “Yeah, and—”

  “Mainly military arms, huh?”

  “Yes. They—”

  “Thanks.” I started for the door.

  “Hey, I thought you wanted me to tell you about Krupp.” I didn’t answer him; I was already on the front steps.

  Selena Gonzalez was at home, but she didn’t want to let me in. After she yelled for me to go away, I kept pounding on her door.

  “I said, go away!”

  “No. I have to talk with you.”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Let me in.”

  “You will disturb my neighbors.”

  “Then open the door.”

  Finally she did. Casting a sullen look at me, she went and sat on the floor amid a litter of plastic sandwich bags. Big tubs that contained dried fruit and nuts were lined up in front of her.

  “Getting ready for the flea market next weekend?” I asked.

  “Yes. They bring the food from the plant where I buy it on Tuesday. I spend the rest of my week putting it in the bags and pasting my label on the jars.” She motioned to several cases of olives that sat on the kitchen counter.

  “Looks like a hard week’s
work.”

  She didn’t catch the irony in my voice. “Work is what you make it.”

  I sat down crosslegged behind a tub of dried banana chips and viewed her over it. She looked even worse than the night before; her face was pale and puffy and her hair straggled from combs that seemed to have been stuck into it at random. When she saw me studying her, she picked up a bag and began filling it with corn nuts.

  “Selena,” I said, “when I was here last night you told me you met Jerry Levin when he bought some fruit from you.”

  She hesitated, then continued filling the bag. “That is true.”

  “No, it’s not. I want to know how you really met him – and when.”

  “He bought some fruit from me–”

  “No, Selena.”

  She reached for a stapler that sat beside her, picked up a label, and sealed the bag, stapling the label to it at the same time.

  “You’ve known Levin a long time, haven’t you? Ever since he and Mack Marchetti and Monty Adair used to play those war games.”

  She was silent, tossing the bag on a pile of full ones and reaching for another to fill.

  “Where did you meet Levin?”

  She looked up, eyes flashing with about a third of their former spark. “All right! I met him at Mack’s house. Once. And that is all. Is it a crime to meet someone at a friend’s house?”

  “No, not if it stopped there. But you met Levin again, at David’s, the day Sam Thomas saw you. Why did you go there?”

  “To have lunch! Why does anyone go to a delicatessen?”

  “No, Selena, you had more on your mind than bagels and lox.”

  She began putting corn nuts in the bag.

  “Last night you also said that Jerry Levin wanted keys to Willie’s house so he could retrieve the Torahs. I know he got those keys. From you.”

  Her hand faltered and corn nuts rolled onto the floor.

  “What I wonder,” I added, “is how you duplicated them.”

  “I didn’t’!”

  “Then who did?”

  “Monty. Monty did.”