Tony Romolo stood in the center of the room, tall, slim, dark and handsome. He was wearing white tennis shorts and a yellow cashmere pullover sweater.
“Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating the death of a man named Joseph Puma,” Vogel said.
Romolo nodded. “I read about that.”
“The night he was killed,” Vogel said, “one of our officers saw a big black car come out from the parking lot where Puma was found dead and head this way.”
Romolo frowned. “I’m not sure just what you’re suggesting, Lieutenant, but I have a feeling my attorney should be present.”
“That’s up to you. We can wait.”
He looked between us doubtfully. Then he said, “Go on.”
“The officer had no reason to suspect anything at the time, so he didn’t get the license number of the car. But he remembered they were Nevada plates.”
“So?”
“I would have to assume you have friends in Nevada, Mr. Romolo.”
“Why would you have to assume that?”
Vogel’s voice was harsher. “Let’s not play games.”
Tony Romolo took a deep breath and exhaled it. “Lieutenant, I may have investments in Nevada, but I can’t think of any close friends I have there. I have investments in a number of states, including this one.”
“That would include the Trinity Investment Company?”
“It might. I would have to ask my business manager. Should I phone him?”
“Don’t bother,” Vogel said. “He’s probably as crooked as you are.”
“I think,” Romolo said, “it is time for you gentlemen to leave.”
“So do I,” Vogel said. “I’ve got a weak stomach.”
We went out through the door the butler opened for us. We went back to the department car parked among all that classy machinery and climbed in. The gates swung open for us.
Vogel’s face was stone. I waited for a mile or so until it was hard clay before asking, “Who told you about Tony’s investment in Trinity?”
“That would be police business.”
“Pardon me for asking. Mr. X probably told you. Are you two buddy-buddy now?”
“Shut up!”
“Screw you,” I said. “Put on your leisure suit and go play poker Friday night.”
About a tenth of a mile later he started to laugh. “That really is a dumb suit, isn’t it?”
“I’m surprised Elly let you buy it. I admired the way you covered for Calvin. I didn’t think you liked him.”
“I love that ornery bastard. But he’s on the wrong side of the fence.”
The law, that was the fence to Bernie. Not justice, but the law. I considered explaining to him that everything Hitler did was legal, but it didn’t seem like the right time to mention it.
Vincent Scarlatti was an old man. Had he turned over the reins to Peter, as Nick Romolo had to his son? In that case, the five-hundred-dollar Christmas check could be a retainer. The sons may not have inherited their fathers’ enmities. Once again, Joe could have been the liaison man for the Scarlattis, patching up a family feud.
“Why so silent?” Vogel asked.
“I’ve been thinking about the Scarlattis and the Romolos. Are they still feuding?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“For the last three years Joe Puma has been getting a five-hundred-dollar Christmas check from Peter Scarlatti.”
“Where’d you learn that?”
“From my new buddy, Mr. X.”
He said wearily, “Let’s stop taking cheap shots at each other. Let’s pretend we’re adults.”
“Mrs. Puma told me this morning.”
“Did she tell you anything else?”
“Only that she’s looking for a job and her son was at a track meet. I was thinking the five hundred could be a retainer. I had this crazy theory.”
“I’ll listen.”
“Joe could have been the peacemaker. Peter could have used him to approach the Romolos and patch things up. Tony doesn’t need any gang wars. They don’t work that crudely these days.”
“Sometimes they do. But you can imagine an old pro like Puma meeting hoodlums at night in a deserted place like that?”
“If Romolo thought his house was being watched, why not? Joe wasn’t bringing trouble. He was bringing a peace offer. All they had to do was say no.”
He shook his head. “I don’t buy it.”
Joe the peacemaker? Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of God. … I couldn’t quite sell it to myself.
“Maybe,” Vogel said. “Maybe. And their answer was a bullet in the eye. But what hit man could carry a puny little thirty-two?”
“In the eye, a pellet gun would do the trick. He must have trusted the killer, to let him get that close.”
“I suppose,” he said in a tired voice. “I blew my cool back there, didn’t I? That smooth bastard really got to me. With their lawyers and their slick accountants and their phony fronts. They make a mockery of the law.”
“It’s our law, not theirs. They found all the holes in it. And their high-priced shysters taught them how to bend it.”
“Maybe we should, too.”
“Not you, Bernie. Then you’d be just another crummy private eye. I like you the way you are.”
His smile was dim. “You’re kind of moral, Brock. Even if you did quit going to Mass.”
“So are you. Even though you don’t go to temple anymore.”
“You slob,” he said. “I’ll buy you lunch.”
At Plotkin’s Kitchen he had lox, I had corned beef. He had four cigarettes and three cups of coffee. I had two cups of coffee.
“You should quit smoking,” I said.
“I know, I know. I’ve tried a dozen times. I should quit the department, too. But I can’t afford to. You know what a cop is today? He’s nothing! The citizens scorn him. The shysters make a damned fool out of him in court. He picks up some punk on a lousy traffic violation and winds up with a bullet in his head. And who cares?”
“Some of us do.”
“Not enough of you.”
“Enough. You get too bitter about it and we’ll wind up with a police state. I’m sure neither one of us wants that, do we?”
“I’m beginning to think it’s the only answer.”
“So did Stalin and Hitler. Where do we go next?”
“I haven’t any place. You?”
I shook my head.
“Okay. You go out and play golf and I’ll go back to the station to see if your beloved Mr. X has come up with something. If he has, I’ll have you paged at the country club.”
“You said no more cheap shots,” I reminded him.
“I apologize. Let’s go.”
12
HE WENT INTO THE station. I went home. Jan was out at poolside reading a big, fat novel under the shade of the overhang.
“Some man phoned,” she told me. “He wants you to phone him back. I left the number on the desk in the den.”
“Didn’t he leave his name?”
“Only the number.”
It looked dimly familiar. I checked it; it was one of the numbers on Joe’s list of four. The initials were S.H.
The voice that answered the phone was old but hearty. “Brock Callahan returning your call,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Judge Vaughan told me yesterday that you were a friend of Joseph Puma’s.”
“I was.”
“And you’re a private detective?”
“Not anymore. I’m retired.”
“Could you come up here to Ridge Road this afternoon? I know it’s a long drive but I’m confined to a wheelchair and it’s my driver’s day off. I would be glad to compensate you for your time, of course.”
“No need for that. I’ll be there.”
He gave me his name, Sloan Hartford, and the address. Ridge Road ran along the peak high above our house, but the address he gave me wa
s at the other end of it.
I took the freeway to the Jacinto turnoff and started to climb. Up, up, up, winding and twisting, the view getting wider, the Mustang complaining. She hates to work. Zipping along the freeways, that is her idea of the good life.
His house was on the west side of the road, a low, long redwood place cantilevered out over nothing but air. The way I saw it, a six-point earthquake could slide him right back to town—in many pieces. He must be a brave old man.
A heavy black woman of about fifty opened the door to my ring. She led me to a corner room with about twelve feet of air below it.
He was old, he was thin. But his color was good and his handshake was strong. “Alan isn’t usually wrong about people. He was sure you’d come up here.”
I said nothing.
He pointed at a rattan armchair. “Sit down, Mr. Callahan.”
“I realize bringing you up here was an imposition,” he said. “But since a horse threw me, thirty years ago, I’ve been shackled to this thing.”
“Wouldn’t living in town be more convenient for you?”
“It would. But I grew up in this house. I’ve learned to rely on others, of course. One man I relied on was Judson Barlow. He convinced me, some months ago, to invest a sizable portion of my capital in the Trinity Investment Company. Do you know anything about it?”
“Very little. Mostly rumors.”
“I suppose the rumors would be about criminal involvement?”
I nodded.
“I asked my friend Chief Harris about those rumors. He knew nothing. I then tried to hire your friend Mr. Puma to investigate the rumors for me. He refused the job. He said it would be a conflict of interest.”
“In what way? How?”
“He told me he was already employed by the Trinity Investment Company.”
“When was this?”
“Three days before he was found dead.”
“Have you talked about this with Judson Barlow?”
He shook his head. “I’ve steered clear of him ever since the rumors. Would you be interested in doing the investigation for me, Mr. Callahan?”
“I’m retired.”
“I’d make it worth your while.”
“I don’t work for pay anymore. But I am working with Lieutenant Vogel on Joe’s murder. I’ll tell him what you told me.” I paused. “Besides the rumors I’ve heard, I learned something more solid this morning. I’m almost sure the justice department is investigating the Trinity Investment Company. If it’s possible for you to get out now without losing much, it might be wise.”
“You don’t think it will be a profitable investment?”
“It could be. But whether the profits will ever filter down to all the investors could be doubtful.”
“I understand. Skimming. A touch of corn, Mr. Callahan?”
“I don’t know. I’ve still got to get down that road.”
“Wild Turkey.”
“I’m sold.”
“Would you tell my housekeeper? She’s probably in the kitchen. I’ll have mine straight.”
I went to the kitchen and relayed his request and came back to sit down again. “Have you known Judson Barlow long?”
“Since he was a kid. He worked on one of my ranches in the summer. A wild kid from a good family, but I always liked him.”
The housekeeper came in with our drinks. “You know, Mr. Hartford, that this is strictly against the doctor’s orders.”
“Doctors don’t give me orders, Lydia. And this is my first today.”
“And your last!” she said. She went back to the kitchen.
He shook his head and sighed. “She’s so bossy. If she wasn’t the best cook in the country, I wouldn’t take it. I may fire her one of these days.”
“How long has she been with you?”
“Thirty years.”
I laughed, and so did he. “She’s a goddamned saint, that’s what she is. Sticking with a sour apple like me.”
I said, “For some reason Joe Puma kept your telephone number in a private file of his. Since he had already rejected your offer, I wonder why he’d keep the number?”
“It’s an unlisted number. Perhaps he kept it in the event he changed his mind. Perhaps Trinity wasn’t willing to pay him as much as I might. Investigation is a business, too, isn’t it? I mean, you boys aren’t in it for your health.”
“No. Nor money alone, either. I don’t know.”
He smiled. “Yes, you do. I’ve shot big game all over the world. It’s the hunt, isn’t it?”
“Probably.”
He shook his head again. “Judson was always blustery and inclined to bullshit people. But I can’t see him tied up with real criminals.”
“He might not know they are.”
“That could be. He was never very bright. I doubt if he’d have his job at the university if his father hadn’t donated that field house. And being a friend of the governor’s helped, I’m sure.”
“Probably. Vogel and I will talk with him. We won’t mention your name.”
He smiled. “I understand from Chief Harris that Vogel is a whiz at poker. Maybe we could arrange a game some night?”
“Bernie’s a friend of mine,” I said, “but I don’t play high-stakes poker with him. I’m not that rich.”
“Just a thought I had,” he said. “I’ve had to get my excitement sitting down for the last thirty years.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to us, Mr. Callahan, and to hell with the rest of ’em.”
We drank to that and I headed down the mountain.
A horseman, a rancher, a poker player, a big-game hunter and Wild Turkey drinker living on that precarious perch in a chair for thirty years. Maybe Bernie and I owed him a high-stakes game. Maybe, between us, we could stick it to good old Bernie.
I phoned good old Bernie at six o’clock at home. I told him what Sloan Hartford had told me.
He said, “We’ll go out to the university and talk with Barlow tomorrow. I’ll set it up.”
“Hartford suggested that we get together for some poker. I guess he wants to test himself. He’s heard of your great skill at the game.”
“And I’ve heard of his. No, thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The man who had insulted Tony Romolo that morning was afraid to go up against an old man in a wheelchair. Nobody is brave all the time.
Over my bottle of Einlicher and her martini, Jan asked, “What did that man want with you? Who was he?”
“His name is Sloan Hartford and he is an investor in the Trinity Investment Company.”
“And?”
“And he’s worried. For reasons we’ve discussed before.”
“And what was that about the poker?”
“Hartford wanted to go up against Bernie. Bernie declined.”
“I hope you weren’t planning to get into the game. Bernie told me you’re the worst poker player in the world.”
I made no comment.
“Could we play gin rummy after dinner?” she asked. “There’s nothing decent on TV.”
She took eighteen dollars and forty-two cents away from me before we quit to watch the eleven o’clock news.
There had been another radiation leak at a nuclear power plant in Pennsylvania. Families in the area were forced to find temporary shelter out of the danger zone.
Jan kept muttering as she watched. “The bastards!” she said.
Five congressmen and one senator had been trapped by an undercover operation of the F.B.I. They had been indicted for taking bribes from agents disguised as representing Arab oil interests.
“The bastards!” I said. “All Democrats.”
Nothing from her but a glare.
Two Los Angeles police officers had pumped nine bullets into an unarmed one-hundred-and-thirty pound black man in the central district of the town. The officers claimed the man had attacked them.
That was enough bastards for one night. We turned off the tube and went to bed.
Shadows on the moo
nlit windows and rustlings in the shrubs. A siren wailed from the direction of the freeway. The dog across the street began to bark. I finally fell asleep around one o’clock.
At ten o’clock the next morning Vogel and I were in the office of Judson Barlow out at the U.S.C.V. campus.
The bull sat in his big chair behind his big desk and told us, “I hired Puma, not the company. I control fifty-three percent of the stock in the Trinity Investment Company. Who told you I hired Puma?”
“His file cabinet,” Vogel lied. “Could I ask why you felt you needed his services?”
“Both of you live in this town. You must know about the crazy rumors that have been circulating. I heard yesterday that even some F.B.I. men are interested.”
“They haven’t contacted you?”
“Not yet.”
“So you hired Mr. Puma to learn if the rumors were true?”
“Of course not! I hired him to find out who was spreading them. Wouldn’t I know if they were true?”
“Isn’t Tony Romolo one of your investors?”
“I never heard of him.”
“How about the Mead Land Company?”
“They’ve invested some money. Quite a lot, as a matter of fact.”
“Tony Romolo is the Mead Land Company, Professor. And there’s a possibility he is the man who had Joe Puma killed.”
The bull seemed to shrink behind his desk. If you gave him an enema, Lenny had said, you could bury him in a match box.
He looked between us dazedly. Stupidly might be a better choice of words. “You mean this Romolo is a—a—”
“We’re not sure what he is,” Vogel said. “His father is in a federal penitentiary for running the same operations Tony is now running. I’m surprised that you haven’t heard of that name.”
“I, uh, don’t read much outside of the geology journals. I’m sure my attorney will find a way to get me out of this—this mess.”
“Advise him not to move too fast,” Vogel said. “That could have been Puma’s mistake.”
The bull nodded weakly. He was ready for the matador’s blade.
“Is there any information you can give us,” Vogel asked, “that might possibly help us find Puma’s murderer?”
“None. Maybe my attorney could. His name is Knox Hamilton. Do you know him?”
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