For a moment I had a creepy thought about an old record, “Gloomy Sunday,” which was finally banned, allegedly because so many people had killed themselves after listening to it. It had certainly been a weird, morbid thing about deciding to “end it all” and other such elevating suggestions.
“I'd like to hear that record,” I said. “What happened to it after Charley..."
“I packed all his things and have them stored temporarily. That's what I've been doing. His records are in ... one of the boxes. I remember packing that one in with some other forty-fives, and several albums. Do you want me to get it?"
“Well, I'd like to hear it, but I know where another copy is. I've things to do, Sylvia, so I'll give you a ring later."
She went with me to the door and as I walked down the hall she said, “Bye, Shell.” Ting-ting.
I waved to her. “See you later, Sylvia."
A call from me to Captain Samson, then another one from Samson to the Royalcrest, cleared me to look around Johnny Troy's suite. In his living room I went to the record changer on which the 45-rpm “Annabel Lee” had been yesterday afternoon. It wasn't there now. Well, it had to be around somewhere.
Only it wasn't.
I spent a lot of time looking, talking to police, hotel people, hunting around the suite. No “Annabel Lee.” The police officer who had come to the suite in response to the call told me there had been no record on the changer when they arrived. It was, I thought, peculiar.
And disturbing ... Suppose it had still been on the changer, even if not actually being played, when Troy had died. Given that assumption, the next one naturally was that somebody must have removed it from the suite after his death and before the arrival of the police. Which meant somebody might have been in the suite at very nearly the time—maybe exactly the time—of Troy's death.
I called Sylvia White again, told her I'd changed my mind and would appreciate it if she'd find Charley's copy of that record. She said it would take a little time, but she'd get it for me, and I said I'd check with her later.
Then I headed for the Diplomat Hotel. Joe Rice was usually at the Diplomat on Sundays.
CHAPTER TEN
Rice owned a two-hundred-thousand-dollar estate in Beverly Hills, but he also rented a poolside cabana at the Diplomat Hotel for use every weekend. The hotel and his church were within four blocks of each other on Wilshire Boulevard, so after going to church with his wife on Sundays, and dropping a C-note with just a little ostentation—he didn't quite wave it over his head in the air while a band played—into the collection box, he hied himself to his cabana, and cavorted like a hairless walrus in the pool. Immediately upon leaving church, he sent his wife home, thus leaving himself free to cavort.
The two-hundred G's for his estate, and the C-notes which he gave in abundance to the “poor and needy,” were part of his profits from extortion, gambling, Red-Chinese narcotics, murder, and assorted other felonies. He had once been convicted of a misdemeanor, but had never done a day of big time.
I found him by the pool.
He was sprawled in a metal-and-canvas chair under a beach umbrella. A blond gal was on the grass at his feet, playing with some loose skin on his leg. He looked like a sad, sour, sick Buddha of the Fleshpots, a fat, gross, evil man with a look that would have stamped him as evil if he'd been singing “Oh, Promise Me” in a church choir.
But the blonde ... Maybe she was evil, too, but her sins—and there must have been some, since she was with Rice—didn't show, and if she'd been backsliding it sure hadn't hurt her slider. Of course, all I could see was the back of her head and about 97 per cent of her epidermis. What, I thought, is the luxurious, high-class, hoity-toity Diplomat coming to? I liked the Diplomat. I just didn't like Joe Rice.
He didn't like me, either. When he saw me walking toward him his usually sour and somewhat blubbery chops assumed an expression like the fifth face down on a totem pole. He seemed to be straining to have a bowel movement. He stared at me, shooting me down like a dog with his eyes.
I stopped by the beach umbrella, pulled up a chair, and sat. Usually I'm more polite, and wait to be asked. Not with guys who try to kill me, though. And not with such as the Mafia s.o.b.'s, which he was.
“Hello, Joe,” I said. “Mind if I join you?"
“Yeah."
“But I wanted to ask you about some guys."
“So ask. You're here.” His eyes were dark, hooded, muddy, and shot with broken veins; they were about the shade and consistency of burning fuel oil. “What guys?” he went on.
“Snag and Booby,” I said casually. “And—"
“Never heard of'm."
“Tony Anguish—"
“Never heard of'm."
“How about Francis Boyle?"
“Never heard of'm.” He sat up straighter, skin of his loose breasts and pot belly jiggling, and kicked the blonde on her hind end. “Go play with your money, baby."
“Honey, I don't have any money."
“You're a goddamn liar. I gave you a buck. Go—” He stopped, thought for a while, looking at the place where he'd kicked her, then reached for a checkbook and pen on the table. Hiding the vital details from me, he scribbled on a check, tore it out, and handed it to the blonde. “Go play with that,” he said.
She looked at it and her eyes widened. “But, honey—"
“You want it in cash? Or you want a kick in the head? Go buy yourself some mink pants. Beat it."
She stood up obediently.
I said to Rice, “How about Charley White?"
“Never heard of'm."
“Joe Rice? Benjamin Franklin, John D. Rockefeller?"
“Never heard—Ah, shut up."
The blonde was moving away, with a moving-away movement to cause heart stoppages and secret ruptures. She went straight from us over to another table under a a beach umbrella, where sat a man looking very sweaty in a black suit. He was a big man with a wiry black mustache and a bald spot that covered his entire head.
I said, “She's left you already for another dandy. How much did you give her?"
“A buck. Same as always."
“Joe, your charm equals your beauty. And is exceeded only by your generosity."
He mulled that over, almost smiled, mulled some more. Don't ever swallow this guff about criminal masterminds—not hoodlum or Mafia masterminds, anyway. Maybe there's one in about ten thousand, but the rest feel a sense of accomplishment when they tie their shoelaces unaided. They'll sit there looking at their feet and say, “How about that?"
Maybe I exaggerate a bit, but not much. It takes no brains to pull a trigger, swing a sap, or muscle scared citizens around. And, oddly, right there in my weighty thoughts, I took a better look at the sweaty bald guy in the black suit, and recognized him.
His name was Bill Bonchak, he was called Billy Bounce, and he probably wore the coat to cover up a couple of guns and a bloody knife; he wasn't neat or tidy. Billy Bounce had fallen from L.A. for assault with a deadly weapon, plus one charge of extortion, and two of rape, and had done big time on the ADW charge. The others were dismissed for lack of evidence. After all, it was his word against theirs. He worked for Joe Rice.
“One more name,” I said.
“Yeah."
“Billy Bounce."
He turned his head and looked at Billy Bounce. “Never heard of'm.” Then he stopped and did some more mulling. “Yeah, I heard of'm. You mean Mr. Bonchak. He lives here at the hotel."
“At your beck and call."
“Beck?"
“Like a signal, a—I mean, he works for you."
“The hell. He don't. Nobody don't."
“I believe you."
“Scott. I'm gonna surprise you. Instead of having you drowned in the pool, I'm gonna tell you anything you ask. I got nothing to hide and all I want is you to get through here and blow. OK?"
“OK.” I didn't believe him, but it wouldn't hurt to try. And, surprisingly, he was actually much more cooperative from then on than
I had any reason to expect. I'd thought I might have a chance to shake something out of him—or at least shake him up—which was why I'd come here, but he really did tell me a little.
We went through some more of the “Never heard of'm” routine, but then I said, “Thanks for the cooperation. I know damned well Tony Anguish works for you."
“Well, he did. But he don't."
I blinked. “You admit he did work for you?"
“He did. But he don't."
“Since when?"
“Since a couple months. He, uh, used to run errands for me."
Yeah. Go kill this guy, go kill that guy, go buy some poison. I said, “Well, I'm glad to know he wasn't working for you when he and Snag and Booby tried to kill me."
“Tried to kill you, huh? Too bad they didn't.” It wasn't said with anger. Just with sincerity.
“I don't suppose you know,” I told him, “but Snag's dead. Tony got away, but Booby's in jail singing his head off."
“He won't open his goddamn...” Rice let it trail off a bit late. Oddly, though, he didn't reach under the table and get a sawed-off shotgun and start blasting at me. He just smiled and said flatly, “I was thinkin’ about someone else."
“Yeah. Speaking of checks...” I glanced over toward Bonchak's table. He was gone, but the blonde was still there, drinking something pink from a tall glass. “I hear you contributed a fat one to Horatio Humble's campaign. Not directly, of course, but through Sebastian. You do know Sebastian, don't you?” Hell, he'd hired the Shrine Auditorium for a testimonial dinner for Sebastian two years ago. It had been in the newspapers, even.
So it didn't surprise me when he said, “Sure, I know Ulysses. Fine fellow."
“Come on, Joe. How much was that campaign contribution? A buck?"
He thought about that awhile, glanced over at the blonde, let the oily eyes rest on me. Then he did surprise me. He surprised hell out of me by admitting it. “A couple hundred G's,” he said. “What about it?"
I was so flabbergasted I couldn't tell him what about it. I hadn't expected him actually to admit anything; I'd simply wanted to hit him with everything I knew or suspected about him, and hope I might pick up a hint or two from his expression, or reaction, or telepathy or something.
I was quiet so long Rice said, “What's wrong with contributing to the party of your choice? Don't everybody do it?"
“No, unfortunately. But what's in it for you?"
Not that I didn't think maybe I had an idea. It was a sort of secret open secret in Washington that, after the State Department had managed to kick out all the old-time security officers, there had been some possibly unusual deals relative to the issuance of passports and visas to people who maybe shouldn't have got them—like known Communist Party members, and big-name hoods—and, so the reports went, the blocking of deportation orders for undesirable characters, like Mafia bosses. There's big money in the visa-and-deportation gimmick, and while it may be an ugly fact of life, facts don't go away simply because they're ugly.
“I'm just being patriotic,” Rice said.
“Yeah?” That made me think of something else. There wasn't much chance Rice would tell me anything about it, even if he knew, but I hadn't expected that first plum. Maybe he felt gabby today.
The Communist Party always works for one of the two candidates in a Presidential election—the one who trusts them most, I guess—and it was no secret that the CP was supporting Humble. That is, with the usual propaganda-and-words approach, editorials in the Worker and such. But I'd picked up off the wire a rumor that a Commie named Midas Kapper, sort of an errand boy and bagman for a member of the Party's ruling executive board, had carried to Humble either a large check or cash—not directly to Humble, of course, but loot that was supposed to have become mingled with his campaign funds. It was only a rumor, however, and there are always rumors.
“Just being patriotic, huh?” I said. “I hear the CP dished out half a million for Humble's campaign. Were they being patriotic, too?"
“What's the CP?"
I grinned. “The CPUSA, the Communist Party, U.S.A. Now I'll bet you remember."
“Oh, them. Well, they're a political party, too."
“Sure. Like the Mafia."
I kept grinning, but for the first time his face got really hard. You wouldn't think a face so fat and blubbery could get so hard. Those fuel-oil eyes burned a little brighter.
Then he said, “There ain't no such thing as the Mafia. It's a myth. That's all been proved a bunch of newspaper baloney.” He didn't say baloney; he never said baloney.
“OK, the hell with that. You getting any more H from Red China?"
Well, that time I think if he'd had the shotgun handy he would have been at least tempted to use it. It's a strangely frightening thing to see a man like Rice really angry—and he was really angry. There's plenty of evil in a man like that to begin with, and evil is a force; with his anger pushing it from him, I could almost feel the slimy blow on my flesh. I know I felt it somewhere. In that moment I knew Joe Rice was capable of anything, absolutely anything; that there was no crime so base or obscene that he would hesitate for a moment to commit it if he had the opportunity, and if the opportunity meant gain for him—or the satisfaction of a strong emotion, like revenge or hate. I knew he was going to kill me if he could.
Of course, I was pretty well convinced he'd already tried. But it would be different now; he'd try harder.
And that's why I couldn't understand what happened next. He fought the anger down.
It was almost like hearing a preacher start singing obscenities from the pulpit, in reverse. It just wasn't done. Not by Joe Rice. But he fought the anger down.
Then he said, “Scott, you take a lot of chances.” He looked past me, shaking his head. “A lot of chances.” He shook his head some more, swallowed visibly, then said in a voice that was almost controlled, “You know I never got touched on that. I was clean all the way."
“Some of your boys went to Q."
“Some boys went to Q. Not my boys."
“OK, forget it. We both know you're a friend of Sebastian's—well, an acquaintance, at least. So please don't sit there and tell me you never heard of Johnny Troy or Charley White."
“Ah, hell, sure I've heard of ‘em. Who hasn't? I just don't know the bums."
“How about Francis Boyle?"
He shook his head. “Who's Francis Boyle?"
I was watching him, his eyes and mouth, his hand on the arm of his chair. Nothing. “Just a guy,” I said. “A dead guy.” I paused. “I was getting a sort of half-cocked idea you were maybe, just maybe, blackmailing Johnny Troy. Or even Charley White."
“You sure take a lot of chances.” He blew air through his fat lips. “I wasn't, and don't, blackmail nobody. Now, what else do you want to know?"
We sat there for a few more minutes, but he didn't let anything else drop. Then he said suddenly, “That's it, Scott. You can't say I haven't been cooperative."
It was true enough. What puzzled hell out of me was why. I didn't know for sure what this conversation had told me; but I knew it had told me something. I just didn't have sense enough to figure out what it was.
Rice heaved himself to his feet and waddled toward his cabana. I sat there for a few seconds, checked the time. It was twenty minutes till 4 p.m. I got up and left. On my way I passed the blonde, alone at her table and sucking the last of her pink concoction through a straw.
I said pleasantly, “What are you going to buy with all your money?"
She looked up. It was a hard face. “Mink pants,” she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I drove straight back to the Spartan and went up to my apartment and took a shower. I wanted to wash Joe Rice off of me. Then with a towel around my waist I went back into the living room, plopped on the chocolate-brown divan, and used the phone.
I called Sylvia White and she came on with a tinkle.
“Hi,” I said. “Shell Scott. You find that record?"
> “Yes, I did, Shell. Do you want it now?"
“I'd like to check it later. What's the full name and so forth?"
“Just a minute.” She left the phone, then came back. “It's a forty-five, ‘Annabel Lee.’ Vocal by Johnny Troy, with ... with the Eric Manning Quintet."
“Eric Manning Quintet, huh? Never heard of them."
“Neither have I. The other side is the same, only it's something called ‘Comin’ Home.’ With an apostrophe instead of the g."
“'Comin’ Home’ and ‘Annabel Lee.’ Charley was just playing ‘Annabel Lee, huh? Not the flip side?"
“That's right."
“What's the label? The company?"
“Oh, yes. Imperian."
“It's probably nothing, Sylvia, but I'd still like to check the thing. I'm just cleaning up a bit. What say I come and pick it up when I leave here?"
“I could bring it over if you'd like. I'm—there's not much to do."
There probably was nothing to do, except just sit there, Charley's funeral was tomorrow. I said, “How about this? Get ready and bring the record over, and let me take you out to dinner. OK?"
“Oh, fun. I'd like that. I'm starved."
Just the word attacked my stomach like a piranha trying to get out. I hadn't had breakfast, naturally, and I hadn't stopped for chow since then. So this would be my lunch—not to mention making up for the three meals I cleverly hadn't eaten yesterday. “That's good,” I said. “Because I have been involuntarily fasting, and you're going to see a display of voraciousness which will go down in your memory as a low point in the history of delicate dining. We'll start out with charcoaled steaks for hors d'oeuvres, then a dozen lobsters on the half shell—"
“Oh, dear, I don't eat much at all—"
“Tonight, you eat like crazy. As soon as possible. Oh, mmyumm-mmyumm, I can't wait. Hurry, hurry!"
“But I have to shower and dress.... An hour?"
The Trojan Hearse (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 10