Cana Diversion

by William Campbell Gault

  “You had me followed again,” he said. “You had Brock Callahan spy on me?”

  She shook her head. “Joseph Puma. That man who was murdered.”

  “And now we’re both embarrassed,” he said. “And I’m sure Mr. Callahan is, too. Oh, Nadia—”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” I said. “And I can understand her reaction. There have been a few coincidences in this Puma business. This happens to be one of the more unfortunate ones.”

  Engelke’s face was rigid. “My wife, Brock, has this absurd notion that I married her for her money. She—”

  “I don’t want to hear any more,” I interrupted. “There’s been embarrassment enough. Why don’t we all go out for lunch and talk things out?”

  “And let Nadia pay for it,” he said. “She has the money.”

  “Mr. Engelke,” I told him, “that was a rotten thing to say.”

  He nodded. “It was, and I apologize. Call me Stu.” He went over to hug his wife.

  At the restaurant I gave him my Ethics Committee Story and we went on to other topics.

  He told me the company had thought of hiring a local investigator but none of them seemed qualified. “Mr. Puma,” he went on, “was the most qualified local man—until we checked his background.”

  “And the name Scarlatti jumped up and hit you in the eye?”

  “To put it graphically.”

  “So far as I know, Joe acted solely as an intermediary in that kidnapping. Why did you need an investigator?”

  “We discussed that in my office.”

  “The Trinity outfit?”

  He nodded. “And one of our company attorneys told me yesterday that there are government officers in town interested in the Puma murder. We might have hired a double agent.”

  “You mean Joe might have been working for Trinity?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? Let’s talk about football.”

  “I’d rather talk about CANA. Will Barlow get his land back if the power plant doesn’t go through?”

  “Yes. At the price he paid for it years ago. And he can build his luxury subdivision without having to worry about buyers who might be scared away if the plant was there.”

  “So that’s why he made a fool of himself in your debate.”

  “Most people thought I was the fool that night.”

  “You were bad,” I said. “But you were sure gutty. I was rooting for you.”

  “My husband,” Nadia said, “is a very brave man.”

  “And handsome, too, as you told me at your house. And faithful, as you must have ample enough reason to know.”

  “You bastard,” she said.

  “Liar, blabbermouth, weasel and now bastard. Nadia, we’re not going to make it.”

  “Yes, we are,” she said. “Let’s have another bottle of wine.”

  We had come in her car, a Rolls Corniche. On the way back, I told her, “Drop me off at the police station. I know some of the boys there. Maybe I can learn why the Feds are in town.”

  “For us or for CANA?” Stu asked.

  “For me,” I said. “I’d hate to think Joe Puma was what he’s beginning to look like. He left behind a brave wife and a wonderful son.”

  On this wine-induced sentimental note we parted. I went in to see if Vogel was in his office. He wasn’t. I had nowhere to go but home.

  And then I realized a mission of mercy was due Calvin. I climbed into the Mustang and drove back to Arroyo Road.

  He was pouring gasoline from a can into his tank. He studied me doubtfully. “Now what?”

  “I wanted to talk to you without the fuzz listening. Get the new points in? She ready to roll?”

  “We’ll see.”

  He went to the front of the car, took the lid off the air cleaner and poured some gas down the carburetor throat.

  “Cross your fingers,” he said, and climbed in behind the wheel.

  The starter groaned twice and died. “Shit!” he said. He looked at me. “That battery’s been standing too long. You wouldn’t want to run it down to the Mobil station, would you? They got one of those quick chargers there.”

  “No need,” I said. “I’ve got jumper cables.”

  I took them out of the trunk and came back to open the hood. I was clipping them to my battery when he said, “Is that a Dalton four-barrel carb?”

  “It is. And those are Spelke high-turbulence heads. And Norm Spelke reground my cams.”

  “Man!” he said. “I knew you were all right the second I saw you.”

  “You don’t have to con me, Calvin. I’m not a cop. I’m a friend of the man who was killed.”

  He was clipping the other ends of the cables to his battery. “He was a private eye. You a private eye?”

  “I was. I’m retired. Okay, let’s go.”

  I started my engine; he tried his starter. Bingo! The dead Plymouth was reborn. I turned off my engine. We disconnected the cables. The Plymouth kept chugging away.

  “You want a drink?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. I’m overloaded with wine.”

  “What the hell, man, a little nip won’t hurt. We’ll drink it out here. The house is kind of in a mess today.”

  Today, that was a clever touch. “Okay,” I said.

  “All I got is bourbon?”

  “What else would I drink?”

  “Right. That Vogel, he probably drinks Scotch.” He went to the house.

  What he had called a nip was a half glass of colorless corn. We went over to sit on the edge of his sagging porch. I sat to the right of him, where he couldn’t see me spill some on the ground between sips. It was acid red-eye.

  “Got a friend who makes it,” he informed me. “What’s on your mind?”

  “You. You said you once lived in Nevada.”

  “I did. Drove a cab in Vegas for twelve years.”

  “And still you go mouthing off in bars about those Nevada men that you saw checking out Puma’s car?”

  “I was stoned that night. I ain’t said nothing since. And I ain’t been to Barney’s since I started buying this stuff.”

  “Does Barney know where you live?”

  He shook his head. “And I ain’t got no phone. So how they going to find me? And why should they? I couldn’t identify ’em.”

  I pointed toward the ocean. “Do you know who lives up there in those beachfront homes?”

  “A lot of rich people.”

  “Including Tony Romolo.”

  “Last I heard, Romolo lives in Palm Springs in the winter and Cape Cod in the summer. At least his old man did.”

  “His old man is in a federal penitentiary. Tony moved up here a couple years ago.”

  “Screw him,” Calvin said. “Who cares?”

  “I do.” I gave him three twenties and my card. “You see any more Nevada cars going along that road, phone me. Anything else you learn, I’d like to know. Okay?”

  “You’ve got a deal. Thanks, buddy.”

  I didn’t head for home. I turned left, toward the ocean. Where Arroyo Road ended at Ocean Drive, I turned right. Maybe Romolo’s name would be on his mailbox.

  It wasn’t. But a few hundred feet from a massive pair of wrought-iron gates that guarded the driveway of a shrub-hidden home, a yellow Pinto was parked. The Yosemite sticker was still on the windshield.

  Even the private eyes on the boob tube knew enough to drive inconspicuous cars. If the Feds would get as organized as the hoodlums we could get this country moving again.

  I drove to the end of Ocean Drive, turned around in the cul-de-sac, and headed for home. I waved to Mr. X as I drove past.

  11

  THERE WAS THE BUZZ OF conversation from two tables of bridge in the Callahan wigwam. I nodded and smiled at all the girls (to use a euphemism) and went into the den. Jan had put my Puma papers in there when she cleaned the dining room.

  There was no listing for Romolo in the phone book. Information advised me they had no listing for him. One of Joe’s unidentified numbers h
ad the first three digits that would encompass that area. I dialed it.

  I had guessed right. “The Romolo residence,” a haughty British voice answered.

  I was about to hang up when this screw must have come loose in my brain. “Is Tony there?” I asked.

  “May I have your name, sir?”

  “He’ll know who I am. I’m calling from Miami. Just give him this message—we don’t like what he’s doing. You tell him that.”

  “I don’t quite understand, sir.”

  “You’re not supposed to. Just tell him.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if you—”

  “Tell him!” I said, and hung up.

  Gas rumbled in my stomach. I went to the kitchen for the Alka Seltzer. Damn you, Joe. … Vogel was right, that lard-ass cop was right. Lowell Kendfelt probably hadn’t been lying. Damn you. …

  Easy now, this would be evidence too circumstantial to convict a man. It’s too circumstantial to judge Joe. Get the facts, peeper. No judge or jury would convict a man because he had the private phone number of a hoodlum. Get the facts, peeper.

  Brave Brock Callahan, threatening the Mafia from the coward’s sanctuary of anonymity. It was almost funny. But who dared to go up against them? They owned politicians and corporations and cops. They ran all the commercial vices in the country that grossed more than two dollars a bet or ten dollars a trick. They had legitimate front organizations in every major capital in the world.

  If they had propositioned Joe—what could he say? He could have said no. Why else was he dead?

  The gas stopped rumbling in my stomach. The chatter from the living room ceased. Jan came into the den.

  “Why are you sitting here glowering?”

  “I’m a little bilious. I had lunch with the Engelkes and went overboard on the wine.”

  “Are they nice?”

  “I liked them.”

  “Then I probably will, too. I polled the girls. They all like Nadia. And the ones who have met her husband like him. Lois said Nadia has the money and tries to dominate the mouse.”

  “Lois said that?”

  “I know, I know. The pot was talking about the kettle.”

  “Let me tell you two things. The man is no mouse. And no human or animal, female or male, is going to dominate him.”

  “Okay. I’ve been wrong before. Should we eat out?”

  “Any place but Pierre’s. Some place that serves bland food.”

  “I’ll call Nadia first,” she said. “I thought we could have a barbecue Friday night.”

  At Castellini’s Lobster House, Jan had lobster. I had clam chowder and rye rolls. The Castellini family were third generation San Valdesto residents. They were fishermen, poor at first, now rich.

  The old-country Italians had come here to fish or farm. They raised grapes, oranges, lemons, avocados or walnuts. They made wine. They worked hard and prospered.

  The Italian-Americans we were getting now had made their fortunes in other towns in less-honorable endeavors.

  I told Jan about the fireworks in Stuart Engelke’s office.

  “She sounds like a tigress,” Jan said. “Lois told me her father was Russian and her mother was Spanish.”

  “Was? Are they dead?”

  “They died two years ago, Lois said. Their car went out of control and over a cliff at Big Sur. That’s when Nadia inherited all of her money.”

  “Lois should work for the F.B.I.”

  “You don’t like her much, do you?”

  “I love her! But she’s so damned—stuffy.”

  “Not as stuffy as Alan.”

  “That’s true. Let me rephrase it. She’s so damned—social?”

  Jan shook her head. “You missed it again. What she is, is dumb. But, like you, all her instincts are sound.”

  Instinct wasn’t enough, not in this mess. It had served me often, my hunter’s instinct. In this one, if you don’t mind a mixed metaphor, I had a feeling I was swimming in water too deep for me.

  “Why don’t we go to a movie?” Jan asked. “We haven’t been to a movie for ages.”

  I forget the name of the movie but Burt Reynolds was in it. He is no Olivier, I grant you, but I love to watch him work, so free and easy.

  Every time there was a fade-out, I waited for the commercial. I had forgotten that movies don’t have commercials. They have to be the best bargain in our inflated economy; for only a few extra dollars you can avoid deodorant and toilet-paper ads.

  In my feature dream of the night, Nadia explained to me that the Feds were in town because her father was a Russian spy. I assured her in my smooth Burt Reynolds way that there was no need to worry; I could handle the Feds.

  Jan was preparing breakfast in the morning when I asked, “Why don’t we invite the Vogels to the barbecue? We owe them.”

  “Wouldn’t those people bore Bernie? He’s kind of bright.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “Do you want rolls or toast?”

  “Answer me.”

  “Another thing,” she said, “Bernie doesn’t know about the Engelkes, does he? What if Nadia or her husband should mention to him that she hired Joe?”

  “That’s the last thing they’re likely to mention. Wait—how do you know I kept that from Bernie?”

  “ Because I know you.”

  “You’re so perceptive! I’m surprised that you married such a dumb lout.”

  “It was sheer animal attraction. Toast or rolls?”

  “Rolls.”

  “I’ll invite the Vogels,” she said.

  When I got to the station, the desk sergeant informed me that Vogel was in Chief Harris’s office. I sat and sat and finally said, “Tell Vogel I’ll be back later—maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “That’s right—maybe!”

  He sighed. “Poor Bernie! I’m sure he’ll miss seeing you. I’ll tell him.”

  I wasn’t getting the proper respect at home or in the field this morning. I turned my broad back on the smart-ass and went out to my car. I headed for the Puma residence.

  Ellen Puma was out in front trying to cut the gray Bermuda grass on the front lawn with a rusty twelve-inch hand mower.

  “Here,” I said. “I’ll do that. Joey should do it.”

  “He’s in Fullerton at a track meet. I can handle it.”

  “You go sit in the shade,” I said.

  It was a small lawn but a dull mower. Twenty minutes later, hot and sweaty, I had gnawed away enough of the grass with those rusty blades to make it almost respectable.

  “A Coke?” Ellen asked. “A beer? Seven-Up?”

  “Seven-Up would suit me fine.”

  “We’ll drink it in the backyard,” she said. “The neighbors have enough to gossip about already.”

  On the back steps, looking out at all her flowers, she asked, “Have you learned why the F.B.I. is so interested?”

  “No. It’s probably that Scarlatti business.”

  “Every Christmas for the last three,” she said, “he’s sent us a check for five hundred dollars.”

  “Vince Scarlatti?”

  “No, no. The boy, Peter. He’s grown up now.”

  “He must be nicer than Vince. How about you? Find a job?”

  “I have my application in at seven law offices in town. Nothing yet.”

  “I’ll be talking with Judge Vaughan Friday night. He might know some lawyer who can use a trained secretary.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” She smiled. “If he knows of more than one, I’ll take the single one.”

  “Lawyers get rich so quickly he’d have to be young to stay unmarried.”

  She shrugged. “We can hope.”

  “You’re back with the living, aren’t you? You are one gutty kid, Ellen Puma.”

  “And you are one great guy,” she said. “Happily married I suppose?”

  “Very happily.”

  “That’s the way my luck has been running lately. Damn that Joe! What was he doing in that godforsaken
place?”

  “I intend to find out. Hang in there, Ellen.”

  “You, too,” she said. “And bless you.”

  Vogel was still at the station when I got back. But he was talking in the hallway with Mr. X. I ducked into the men’s room to stay out of sight.

  He opened the door a few minutes later and smiled at me. “You can come out now. That guy must have given you a real whomping.”

  “He’s lucky to be alive. What’s on the agenda for today?”

  “I thought we’d go out and talk with Tony Romolo.”

  And the butler could recognize my voice. I said, “I’ll wait in the car. You’re official; I’m not. I don’t want that Mafia on my neck.”

  “I won’t introduce you. And if you can keep your big mouth shut, they won’t have any reason to bump you.”

  “I won’t say a word,” I promised.

  In the department’s car, he said, “Hiding in toilets and waiting in cars. When did you turn gutless?”

  Nothing from me.

  “I was joking,” he said. “You’ll never run out of mouth or guts.”

  “When I do, I’ll go back to golf. You’re coming to our house Friday night. We’re having a barbecue.”

  “It’s news to me.”

  “Elly will inform you when you get home.”

  “I usually play poker on Friday nights.”

  “You fight that out with Elly.”

  “Oh, sure! We’ll be at your house. Should I wear a tie?”

  “For a barbecue? Why don’t you wear that dumb leisure suit of yours?”

  “Now we’re even,” he said.

  Never get mad, get even, John F. Kennedy had said. Get even with the Mafia? Dear departed president, it’s like this, you see. …

  There was no Plymouth parked next to Calvin’s mansion. I hoped he wasn’t at Barney’s.

  There was a telephone in one of the huge stone pillars that held up the wrought-iron gates. Vogel got out to identify himself and came back to the car. The big gates swung open and we drove through.

  “The slimy scum sure live high on the hog, don’t they?” he asked.

  He wasn’t expecting an answer and I was practicing silence. I said nothing. There was a Porsche in sight on the long curving driveway, an Aston-Martin and a BMW. There was no big black car with Nevada plates.

  The butler said, “This way, Lieutenant,” and led us into an immense two-story gabled living room at the back of the house. Wide windows gave us an impressive view of the sea.