The Bay shimmered in the sun and sea gulls whirled in a circle around the wharf. A pleasant town, self-contained and self-governed, insular and chauvinistic. It has been maligned often in print, but what town is perfect? Los Angeles surrounded it on three sides and the ocean was the fourth side. Without Los Angeles, its criminal problems would be minor. Without the ocean, it would be nothing.
I sat on a bench in the small park surrounding Headquarters and thought back to yesterday, when Mrs. Malone had first come to see me. I thought of everything that had happened since and could see no pattern in any of it.
Pete and Dave Petroff came over to the bench when I had just finished a newspaper I had found there. “Waiting for us?” Pete asked.
“For a ride,” I told him. “My car’s still at your place.” I stood up. “Did you file your complaint?”
He looked uncomfortable. “My attorney suggested I hold off for a while.”
I smiled. “Don’t tell me a big man like that is afraid of Giovanni.”
“He was thinking of me.”
I looked at Dave’s bruised and lumpy face. I said nothing.
Pete said, “Don’t worry, I’m not quitting. I can get you plenty of Giovanni. I know just where to get it.”
I chuckled. “You are so unafraid of Frank Giovanni you are going to help me commit suicide. Pete, that’s damned white of you.”
“You’ll be going up against him anyway, won’t you? You’re already a marked man, after you manhandled that Calavo slob. You’re investigating Tip Malone’s death, aren’t you?”
“Who told you that?”
He nodded toward Headquarters. “The Chief. And man, if Giovanni isn’t hip-deep in the murder of Tip Malone, I’m Santa Claus.”
I stretched and rubbed the back of my neck. I said, “I’ll be obliged to you for a ride to my car.”
He took a deep breath. “All right then, I’ll hire you. You’re for hire, aren’t you?”
“Not until I’ve finished the case I’m on. If I think I might need some dope on Giovanni to finish that, I’ll call on you. Let’s go.”
We rode without further dialogue to my car. There I thanked them for the ride and told Pete, “If anybody had done to my brother what that Jessup slob did to yours, I wouldn’t have got a lawyer. I’d have got me a hunting license.”
Pete said stiffly, “That was just about my original plan. But when I pay the kind of money that shyster costs me, it seems dumb not to take his advice.”
“Sure,” I said. “I was speaking emotionally, not financially. Well, keep your guards up.”
Dave was already walking toward the house. Pete lingered, studying me. I walked over toward my car and he came along.
As I got in and put the key into the ignition lock, he said, “You’re thinking I’m gutless.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry I said as much as I did. Who wants to be a dead hero?”
He said quietly, “I’ve always watched over Dave. I’m older and bigger. I guess I’m smarter, too.” He rubbed his cheek. “Brock who are you working for?”
“A client, a big wealthy client. Maybe I’ll be around for that information.” I nodded and backed out onto the highway.
He was still standing on his driveway as I drove up the ramp into Santa Monica, heading for Wilshire.
I had had two breakfasts but it was well past noon now and I was hungry. I parked in the lot across from my office and walked over to the drug-store lunch counter.
There my most loyal fan, the counterman, said, “I saved some rye rolls for you. You look weary, boy.”
“I am. What’s edible besides the rye rolls?”
“The short ribs. How about that Tip Malone, huh? Lousy jock, wasn’t he? Great lover, though I’ve heard.”
“I don’t know much about him,” I said. “Bring me a cup of coffee, will you? And the short ribs with rye rolls.”
He is very sensitive to my moods; he didn’t give me any further dialogue but served me quietly and semi-efficiently. He is perhaps one of the four remaining members of the Brock (The Rock) Callahan Fan Club.
The rock … Now why did that disturb me? The rock. “… upon this rock I will build my Church …”
Back at the office I typed up this morning’s adventures, pausing for a few minutes before omitting any reference to black haired, slim Selina Stone, the stylized songbird. I didn’t know what loyalty I owed her but it seemed decent to keep the police off her neck as long as possible. She reminded me of somebody but I couldn’t remember whom. Some movie star? Some denizen of the cafe-society jungle? The similarity nagged me but wouldn’t come through to completion.
Gina Ronico, now there was a girl more suited to shoving some steel into a man. Tempestuous, no doubt, passionate and volatile and capable of temporary violence.
Did it have to be a woman? Lots of men use knives.
I was separating the carbons from the originals when Sergeant Pascal came into the office. Officer Caroline wasn’t with him, for a welcome change.
His long face was sour and his eyes looked weary. He slumped into my customer’s chair and said petulantly, “I just heard about your run-in with the Santa Monica boys. Why can’t you stay out of trouble?”
I gave him the story on that.
“Giovanni, huh?” he said. “That ties in with my theory.”
“What theory?”
“That he’s in this killing right up to his neck. Look, that niece of his, that Gina whatever-her-name-is, she thinks she’s really something, going all the way up in Hollywood. And so does her uncle Frank, I learned this morning. And isn’t he just the boy to take care of any roadblocks on her climb to the stars?”
“What kind of roadblock was Tip Malone?”
“A married man, wasn’t he? It could be a scandal, couldn’t it? And what would a scandal do to her career?”
I chuckled and said patiently, “Sergeant, you’re living in the wrong decade. What could a scandal do? It could make her. You want to check the box-office increases all the girls get after their scandals. These days, if they can’t find a legitimate scandal, they create one. They need them in their business.”
He shook his head stubbornly. “Not the new ones, just the established names can stand a scandal. And what about her uncle? Does he want her to climb the wrong way? She’s all he’s got, Brock.”
I said nothing.
“Use your head,” he said. “If Giovanni wasn’t worried, why did he send his boys over to muscle Dave Petroff?”
“You tell me,” I said.
“Because Dave and his brother knew about Malone and this Gina, didn’t they? They came over to this office to try and talk you out of telling Mrs. Malone about it.”
“That’s right, Sergeant. They came over to protect her. Now why would Giovanni be mad at them about that?”
“Because now Malone is dead and the girl could be a logical suspect. So Giovanni wants to be damned sure his niece’s connection with Malone is silenced.”
I shook my head. “It just doesn’t add, Sergeant. You already knew Gina Ronico was a friend of Malone’s.”
He nodded. “Thanks to you. But here’s the big question—did Frank Giovanni know I knew?”
I smiled. “Why don’t you ask him?”
He looked at me bleakly. “Are you by any chance suggesting I’m afraid to ask him?”
“Only as a gag,” I said. “I’ve always admired your guts, Sergeant.”
There was a pause and he looked at me sheepishly. “To tell you the truth, the only reason I’m not going up against Giovanni is because it wouldn’t do me any good.”
I felt a coolness at the base of my neck. “That’s reasonable. Even Congressional committees don’t frighten him.”
“But you, now …” he said, and I raised a hand.
“Don’t say it,” I said.
He frowned. “Don’t say what?”
“Don’t say I’d have a better chance because most private men are crooks, anyway, and a crook like Giovann
i might level more with someone like me.”
He expelled his breath. “Most private investigators are crooks. It so happens you’re not. But Giovanni wouldn’t know that. He might offer to buy you off.”
“And I would then take the bribe offer and what information I could worm out of him to you. Right, Sergeant?”
“Right!”
I shook my head. “No I’m too young to die.”
Pascal grimaced. “In other words, he does scare you?”
“That’s a complicated question,” I said. “No man scares me off if I’ve a legitimate reason to stand my ground. But to double-cross a man with Giovanni’s connections …?” I stared at him. “Sergeant, be reasonable!”
He looked at the floor.
I said, “I’ve already mussed up one of his stooges. I wouldn’t be a damned bit surprised if I’ll hear from Mr. Giovanni. If I don’t, I may go to visit him. Tactfully, agreeably and carefully. But not as a spy for the L.A.P.D.”
Pascal’s long face was motionless and his eyes looked past me.
“Did you drive over here just to suggest this?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “I was in the neighborhood. I saw your car on the lot. Look, Brock, we’re working together, aren’t we?”
“Of course. Under the same terms we have before.”
“So if you see Giovanni, I’ll hear about it.”
I nodded. “It will be in my reports. While you’re here, there are the reports up to now. You can take the carbons along and save me the postage.”
He looked over the reports and then steadily at me.
“Complete, up to now?”
I returned his gaze. “As complete as they always are, Sergeant.” I smiled at him. “Let’s not argue, not today.”
He took the carbons, waved, and went out.
Complete, I thought, omitting only the lovely Selina Stone, the Continental carnal-knowledge type song stylist. Now, why was I protecting her? What was she to me? She would probably turn out to be the murderer.
And a Lesbian, too.
It would serve me right.
I sat there, a weary semipro, painfully cognizant of my own shortcomings mistrusting my instincts and resenting Pascal’s dependence on me. Jan was right. It was an idiot’s trade, padding about with big muscles and a small brain.
I had gone to see Giovanni yesterday and thought nothing of it. But yesterday Tip Malone hadn’t been dead. Now, with Tip murdered and Giovanni possibly involved, any visit of mine would have to be considered an unfriendly visit by his way of thinking.
The Department had the trained men and the equipment and the connections. I had only my vulnerability as a weapon; I could be attacked. And from the direction of the attack, one could guess at motives and hope to fashion a pattern that individual trickery could solidify into a case worthy of legal prosecution.
So now, in order to maintain my solid Department acceptance, I was supposed to be the patsy and approach Giovanni. After tangling with his employees this morning, I needed the Department and admitted it. The Department needed me and would never admit it.
I was to be the sacrificial lamb. That was what Sergeant Pascal expected of me. To hell with Pascal. How was I to approach Frank Giovanni? What could I use for an opening speech? It was absurd.
My phone rang. A voice asked, “Brock Callahan?”
“Right,” I said.
“Would it be possible for you to drop over here within the next hour?” he asked. “This is Frank Giovanni.”
SEVEN
THE MAID OPENED THE door. She led me through the white and gold of the immense living room down a hall that led past two open bedroom doors. Gina Ronico was nowhere in sight. The maid opened a door at the end of the hall and said, “Mr. Callahan is here, Mr. Giovanni.”
“Send him in,” a voice said.
The maid stood aside and I went in and she closed the door from outside.
It was a study, paneled in luan mahogany. One wall was bookshelves but there were very few books there. Behind a huge desk near a window, Frank Giovanni sat.
He had immense shoulders and a massive head. And though I couldn’t see them, I knew he also had thin, bowed, short legs which the most expensive tailoring couldn’t disguise. His broad face was like gray rock. Upon this rock …
“Well,” he said genially, “it’s been some time, hasn’t it, Brock?”
I nodded.
He indicated a chair. “Sit down. Drink?”
I sat down. “I don’t drink. Only beer, and I don’t want any of that right now.”
He pushed a cigarette box across the desk. “Smoke?”
“I don’t smoke.”
For a second his eyes held mine and then he smiled. “No vices?”
“A few,” I said.
Again his eyes held mine. Then, “We don’t seem to be getting off to a very good start. Any reason for that?”
What could I tell him? That I hated hoodlums? There are limits to my courage. I said, “I was simply being businesslike, Mr. Giovanni.”
“Oh!” He settled back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “My niece seems to be in trouble. That’s very important to me. She’s very important to me. My only sister’s only child. My sister is dead.”
But how alive your niece is, I thought. And said nothing.
There was a long silence and then Giovanni said, “Jessup and Calavo were investigating Malone’s death this morning. They work for me. I didn’t authorize them to work as—vigorously as they did.”
I said, “We have a police department in this town, Mr. Giovanni. Why should Jessup and Calavo investigate a murder?”
“Because I told them to. Just as somebody told you to. Are you on the police force, Mr. Callahan?”
“In a sense. I’m licensed by the State of California.”
He smiled. “I’ve known a lot of private detectives. I never knew one who worked completely within the law.”
I said nothing.
He said, “I don’t want to fight you. I respect your reputation. I respect you.” He took a breath. “But nobody is going to railroad my niece into court.”
“Nobody has tried to yet,” I pointed out.
“Nobody had better try to. She’s going places, that girl. She’s going to the top. And it’s going to be clean, clean, clean all the way.”
“Clean …?” I said. “With two hoodlums muscling a pair of innocent gamblers who knew her boy friend? With Miss Ronico involved with a married man. Is clean the word you meant to use?”
“Clean,” he said grimly. “No scandal, no peepers, no gigolos, no cheap pictures or cheesecake publicity.”
I smiled and said nothing.
He asked “Why did you smile?”
“You sounded like a maiden aunt. I don’t know what you meant by this ‘top’ your niece is supposed to be headed for, but if you meant it artistically, that would require talent. And if you meant it commercially, the studios will decide how much cheesecake there will be and what kind of pictures she’s suited for. You sounded very naïve, Mr. Giovanni.”
His voice was soft. “Did I? And do you think I am?”
I shook my head.
“She’s talented,” he said. “She’s beautiful and spirited, like her mother was.”
I said nothing.
“And she was not involved, physically, with Tip Malone,” he went on. “And she had nothing to do with his death.”
“Okay,” I said.
His gray face was rigid. “Watch your tongue.”
I stood up. “Okay. Good-bye, Mr. Giovanni.”
“Sit down,” he said. “I haven’t finished.”
“I have. I’ve heard enough. I intend to investigate this murder, cooperating with the Los Angeles Department. No threat of yours or anyone else’s is going to prevent that.”
His voice was softer. “Sit down, please. Have I threatened you?”
“Indirectly. And one of your hoodlums tried to muscle me.”
“I’m
sorry about that. Please sit down.”
I sat down and looked at him steadily.
He took another breath and looked at his folded hands.
He said quietly, “My boys have learned a thing or two about Tip Malone. Their investigative methods may be rougher than yours but they seem to have met with more success, too. The girl he was really involved with is a girl named Selina Stone.” He looked up. “Have you heard of her?”
I nodded. “I talked with her this morning. I hope your idiot employees didn’t try any rough stuff with her.”
“Why shouldn’t they?”
“I can’t stand men who manhandle women. That Calavo wouldn’t want to tangle with me again, I’m sure.”
Giovanni smiled. “Are you? He says you were lucky.”
“He was lucky, Mr. Giovanni. You tell those freaks to stay away from Selina Stone.”
Silence continued as we thought our separate thoughts. I couldn’t be sure what his were, but I was wondering about myself. I was old enough to know people don’t talk like that to Frank Giovanni. But I was also young enough to remember my father had been killed by hoodlums.
The silence lengthened, stretched. Sweat ran down my sides.
Finally Frank Giovanni said, “Nobody has talked this way to me for thirty years.” A pause. “Even those Congressional committees used politer language than you do.”
“My father was killed by a hoodlum,” I said.
“I’m not a hoodlum.”
I said nothing.
He asked quietly, “Am I?”
I took a breath and said candidly, “You’re probably the only man in America who knows if you are or not. Go back to your mother’s standards and examine yourself.”
“My mother,” he said heavily, “died of tuberculosis in a charity ward.”
“I know.”
He shook his head. “You’re a strange man. I’ve heard you were and now I believe it.”
I smiled. “You’re not exactly standard yourself.”
He asked, “Is there any reason for us to fight each other?”
“Possibly not,” I admitted. “Frankly, Mr. Giovanni, I don’t relish being on the opposite side of the fence from you, but a man has to be what he is.”
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