Cana Diversion

by William Campbell Gault

  I shook my head.

  She smiled. “It will be our secret. Another drink?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and stood up. “I really love that Wild Turkey. But I’m due home at four. And I, too, Mrs. Engelke, have a jealous wife.”

  7

  JAN WAS WATCHING THE educational channel again, a program devoted to the fine art of basket weaving.

  “Do you remember a Mrs. Engelke?” I asked her.

  “I think so. Was she at the three-hour lunch you had with Bernie?”

  “No. She’s the wife of the man who debated Professor Barlow.”

  “I remember her. She used to substitute at Lois’s bridge. Beautiful woman. A little heavy for your taste, I imagine. Where did you see her?”

  “At her house. She was a client of Joe Puma’s. That, of course, I shouldn’t have told you and you must never repeat. She paid Joe to follow her husband.”

  “That silly man? She thought that mouse was cheating on her?”

  “Jan, please! The adversary is not always the enemy!”

  “Maybe not to jocks. Who else was with you in Mrs. Engelke’s house?”

  “Oh, shut up!” I said.

  She stared at me.

  “A man has been murdered,” I said, “and you sit there talking like some high-school pom-pom girl. What the hell difference does it make who else was in Mrs. Engelke’s house?”

  She went over to turn off the TV. “Would you like a drink?”

  “It’s only four o’clock. It’s too early to drink.”

  “All right,” she said quietly. “Then we’ll sit here and you can tell me about your day.”

  I gave it to her, blow by blow, deleting only the Wild Turkey.

  “You threatened a government officer?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t identify himself. I assumed he was. Now everything I have told you is strictly secret. And that includes Lois.”

  “Lois? What connection could she have with Joe Puma?”

  “None. But Judson Barlow could, and possibly some others working in CANA.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  I told her what Judge Vaughan had told me about Barlow’s dubious associates in the Trinity Investment Company. “So now,” I went on, “we have a real clean professional-type killing, a bullet through the eye. We also have the coincidence of a South Coast Electric Company employee making Joe’s important file, probably the only adultery investigation in that file. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Neither do I. His wife said it was only a two-day investigation. Then why was it in that file and why is the justice department interested?”

  “That was the only adultery investigation in the file?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure—yet.”

  “You’re building a theory on nothing, maybe?”

  “So far, yes. To tell you the truth, I’m walking around in a fog.”

  “I know it’s a trivial question,” she told me, “but did Mrs. Engelke find out? Was her husband cheating on her?”

  “He was as clean as the driven snow,” I said, “just like your husband.”

  “I remember that old joke,” she said. “He was as clean as the driven snow, but he drifted. Is it time for a drink now?”

  “I’ll get them,” I said, “as an apology for telling you to shut up.”

  “I’ll get them,” she said. “I had it coming. Whiskey?”

  The half glass of 101-proof Wild Turkey was still warm in my stomach. I said, “Bring me a bottle of Einlicher. I had too much wine at lunch.”

  I nursed my beer. She nibbled at her martini. “Back to the wars,” she said. “You can’t quit working, can you?”

  “Joe Puma was a friend of mine.”

  “A close friend? Joe? You know he wasn’t.”

  “I hate killers.”

  “And enjoy the hunt,” she added.

  I sipped my beer. Home is the hunter, home from the hills. … Our doorbell chimed.

  “You answer it,” I said. “It’s probably the Feds.”

  She made no move. I got up and went to the door.

  It was Bernie. “Is it the cocktail hour,” he asked me, “and do you have drinkable Scotch?”

  “Yes, to both questions. Come in and say hello to Jan.”

  In the cool, dim den, Jan said, “It’s been too long a time, Bernie. Is Brock your only friend in this family?”

  “I prefer your company,” he said. “But your husband has set up camp in my hair.”

  “How do you like your Scotch?” I asked him.

  “In a glass,” he said. “How else? No ice, no water.”

  “You sound grumpy.”

  “Run and get the booze,” he said, “and then we’ll talk.”

  “If it’s business,” Jan said, “maybe I’d better leave.”

  He smiled at her. “Why? With his big mouth, I’m sure he doesn’t have any secrets you don’t share.”

  “Sit down,” I said, “and cool off. I’ll get your drink.”

  I brought it to him and sat down across from him. He said, “It’s been a hectic day downtown. What do you two know about CANA?”

  Jan said, “I’ve been working with them for three weeks. Brock joined the cause a couple of days ago. I’m proud to be associated with them.”

  “But you don’t know much about them?”

  “I respect the people I’ve been working with. I didn’t put them through a security check, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And the Trinity Investment Company?”

  “You’d have to ask Brock about that.”

  He looked at me.

  I said, “All I know is what Judge Vaughan told me. And all he’d heard were rumors. The attorneys around town, he told me, call it ‘the unholy trinity.’ I understand Judson Barlow is one of the partners in it. The land they planned to develop that surrounds the power plant is all original Barlow property.”

  “But why should the governor want to know about it? A couple of men from his staff were questioning everybody but the meter maids down at the station.”

  “The governor,” I said, “has a very sensitive political antenna. Judson Barlow is one of his big-money contributors.”

  He nodded. “I see. This is great Scotch.”

  “Thank you. Another?”

  He shook his head. “Now, how about this G-man you threatened? What was that all about?”

  “If you mean the unidentified man who followed me from Pierre’s to the place where I told him off, I didn’t know he was a Fed because he didn’t tell me he was.”

  “He followed you from Pierre’s? Then he must have been the man who told the chief we had lunch together.”

  “Probably. Did the chief read you the riot act?”

  “He did.”

  “So, he’s a politician, too.”

  “It has nothing to do with politics. It’s you. He doesn’t like you.”

  “I would be very uncomfortable if he did. I’m not his kind of people. And neither are you, Bernie.”

  He took a deep breath. “The arrogance of the rich!”

  “He was always arrogant,” Jan said, “even before he was rich. But he’s still a good man to have on your side, Bernie.”

  “I know,” he said wearily. “I know. If I didn’t know that, he’d be in the slammer right now.”

  For the second time that day, we parted friends. I hadn’t told him about my visit to Mrs. Engelke. He is also a cop, subject to the high-level pressures of politicians and the people who buy politicians.

  After dinner I asked Jan, “Do we have any important social engagements this evening?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then I think I’ll run over and see the Pumas. Do you want to go along?”

  She shook her head again.

  “It’ll only be an hour or so. Mrs. Puma told me they don’t have many friends in town.”

  “Go,” she said. “Don’t forget your Junior G-man badge.”

  The
wind had shifted; it was a cool night. On the freeway below, the campers and the vans and the trailers were heading for the open spaces, bringing nuclear energy closer every minute.

  Wastrels, all of us, a spoiled tribe of overindulged children concerned only with now and mine.

  There were cars parked in the street along the Puma block, but none of them was occupied. Joey opened the door to my ring.

  “Hi!” he said. “Something to tell us?”

  I shook my head. “Just thought I’d drop in.”

  “Mom’s in the kitchen. Want a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d like one.”

  From a narrow breakfast nook at the far end of the kitchen, Ellen Puma looked up and smiled. “Did Joey tell you the news we got today?”

  “I didn’t have time,” he said. “Pop bought an insurance policy three weeks ago. One of those monthly term policies for twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Now Joey can go to law school,” Mrs. Puma said.

  “Good,” I said. “And how about you?”

  “I’ll get along. I spent twelve years as a legal secretary. I can find work. Sit down and have a cup of coffee.”

  Her blond hair was pulled straight back, her face devoid of makeup. A pioneer mother in a twentieth-century tract house.

  Joey brought me a cup of coffee and slid in next to his mother on the bench opposite me. She said, “Now tell him the other news, Joey.”

  “They picked up the files in that cabinet,” he said.

  “Federal officers?”

  “One was. There was a uniformed cop with him: I didn’t argue with them.”

  “Why would the F.B.I, be interested in Joe’s files?” his mother asked.

  I didn’t correct her. I said, “Who knows? Maybe they still resent his part in the Scarlatti kidnapping. They can be petulant.”

  “I can’t believe that,” she said. “It must be something else.”

  I shrugged. “Do you plan to stay up here or go back to Los Angeles?”

  “I’m staying. It’s not a bad town. Los Angeles is just too—too busy for me. And Joey likes it here.”

  Some more small talk over the coffee. … When I left, Joey walked to the car with me.

  “That was no F.B.I, agent, was it? That was just for mom, that kidnapping bit.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought they might find out about the cabinet here,” he said. “They won’t learn anything from those files.”

  “Why not?”

  “Pop had some boxes of old files stored in the garage. I took the papers out of the cabinet and put some old ones in.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want them to find out about the thirty thousand dollars. If they find out, mom will.”

  “You’re only guessing that it was dirty money.”

  “Mr. Callahan, you were in the same business. What’s your guess?”

  “I don’t have any,” I lied. “That was a foolish thing you did, Joey, hiding evidence. You could be in a lot of trouble.”

  “I don’t see how. They asked for the papers that were in the cabinet when they got there. We turned them over. Did you tell them about the cabinet?”

  “No. But I told a cop friend about it. He must have told them. They’re better equipped to find your father’s killer than I am. Don’t you want to know who killed your father?”

  “It’s not important. The important thing is he’s dead!” He started to cry.

  I stood there, saying nothing. He had held up well through this so far. He needed tears.

  When he was under control again, I said, “I’ll keep in touch. You holler if you need any help with the estate, or anything.”

  I waited until he had gone back to the house and closed the door before driving away.

  Joe, the reformed horse player, had hedged his thirty-thousand-dollar bet with an insurance policy, the cheapest he could buy. One way or another, Joey was going to become a lawyer. Joe must have thought that was a more honorable trade. Joe had been naive in some ways.

  The boob tube was silent; Jan was reading again.

  “Nothing on the education channel?” I asked her.

  “Guitar lessons,” she said. “How are the Pumas holding up?”

  “They’re making it.” I told her about the insurance policy.

  “He bought it three weeks ago? Is that a clue?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll be in the dining room trying to make some sense out of these files. Maybe, later, we could have some cocoa?”

  “When this book bogs down,” she said. “I’ll bring you some.”

  8

  WE NEVER GOT TO THE COCOA. The night nurse at Lenny’s place phoned to tell me Lenny was weakening. “I can’t make out what he’s saying, but he keeps mentioning your name. You’re the only visitor he has, Mr. Callahan.”

  “I’ll be right down,” I said.

  “What was that?” Jan asked.

  “The nurse at Lenny’s place.”

  She stared at me. “He’s not—”

  “He’s not dead. Not yet. Do you want to go along?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t take it. Will you tell him that?”

  I nodded. “He’ll understand.”

  They had given him a standing ovation when he had driven in the winning run in the ’51 series. He had been a Rookie of the Year, M.V.P. twice and six times a Golden Glover. In his native town they had named a park after him.

  But now? You’re the only visitor he has, Mr. Callahan. If man is made in God’s image, I’m not sure I want to meet Him.

  The room was dim, hardly more than a nightlight. “Brock?” he asked. “Is that you, buddy?”

  “It is.” I went over to hold his bone-thin hand. “Jan couldn’t come.”

  “Jan who?” he asked. His voice was hoarse. “I know why they called you The Rock. You are. Thy name is Peter and on this rock I build my church.”

  “You want a priest, Lenny?”

  “Hell, no. I want a drink. Did you bring one?”

  “I didn’t have time. Is there some left in that bottle in the closet?”

  “Look,” he said.

  I looked. There were a couple of ounces left. I put it in a water glass and held it to his lips. His final communion. He dribbled some. I wiped his mouth with the back of my hand.

  “I saw The Man,” he told me.

  “What man?”

  “The guy with the scythe.”

  “No. It’s those drugs they give you, Pepper. You saw what wasn’t there.”

  “He’s here. You win some, you lose some. But nobody wins the big one, right? Nobody beats The Man.”

  “He’s not here. If he was, I’d have seen him.”

  “Don’t argue, Brock. Just sit a while.”

  I was still holding his hand when the doctor came in. I was still holding it when the doctor said, “He’s dead.”

  Lenny’s ghost had been in the room. My ghost was on the sidewalk below when I went out, his yellow Pinto parked at the curb behind him.

  “I want to talk to you, Callahan,” he said.

  “Not now.” I went down the steps and started to go around him.

  “Now, you arrogant bastard,” he said. “I’m a federal officer.” He grabbed my arm, hard, enough to hurt.

  The shot I gave him would have put down a lesser man. I caught him with a looping right hand between his neck and his chin. He bounced off his Pinto and came back with a haymaker of his own. It nailed me below my right eye.

  I tried to smash the top of my head into his face. But he twisted his head to one side and we started grappling. We were alternating the grappling with some stiff shots below the belt when the wail of the siren was heard in the night and the red light came flashing down the street.

  Captain Dahl was in charge of the night watch. He and the Fed went into the captain’s office while I sat on a bench in the hall, the indignant taxpayer. I sat and sat and sat.

  Eventually the chief came bustling down the hall from
the street doorway. Dahl must have phoned him at home. He glared at me as he went past and into Dahl’s office, slamming the door behind him.

  The door opened again in a few minutes and Dahl beckoned to me.

  The chief was standing next to Dahl’s desk. The Fed sat in a chair on the other side of it. A roly-poly man, Chief Chandler Harris, ornery, political, but fairly honest.

  “Assaulting a federal officer,” he grated. “Do you know what that can get you?”

  “Six days in Hawaii and a ten-speed bicycle on a game show if I guess right. How was I to know he was a federal officer?”

  “Didn’t he tell you he was?”

  “He told me. He didn’t prove it. If some yo-yo walks up to me on the street, grabs my arm so it hurts, and tells me he’s Peter Pan, what do I do—fly away with him?”

  The Fed said, “He knows who I am.”

  “Like hell I do! Tell me your name. I may want to look you up later.”

  “Oh, Christ!” Harris said. “Let’s all sit down and cool off.”

  We all sat down, I on a bench again near the door.

  “Your version first,” Harris said.

  I gave it to him from the phone call to the sidewalk encounter.

  He stared at me. “Lenny’s dead?”

  I nodded.

  He looked at the Fed. “Lenny Devlin is one of our local—well, I guess you’d say idols. I can understand why Mr. Callahan would be disturbed.” He looked at me. “You were close to him, weren’t you, Brock?”

  I had gone from a glare to Mr. Callahan to Brock. My stock was rising. I said, “Somebody had to be. A man shouldn’t die alone in a town where he’s idolized.”

  The chief’s red face grew a touch redder.

  Dahl said, “I was planning to go and see him.”

  “What for?” I asked. “To question him?”

  “Watch your goddamned tongue, peeper,” he growled.

  I started to get up.

  “Sit down!” Harris said. “And you, Captain, you cool it.”

  The Fed said, “I don’t intend to press charges.”

  “I do,” I said, “as soon as I learn your name. I intend to find out why you’ve been harassing me and my attorney agrees I should. Maybe we can find out in court.”

  A silence. Chief Harris sighed and looked questioningly at the Fed. The Fed gave Harris his blank bureaucratic glazed gaze. Nothing from him beyond that.