Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “What makes you think I care if you shoot Parkman?” I said, holding my gun on a line with his chest.

  “You care, Peters, for God’s sake,” came Parkman’s muffled voice from inside the closet. “Do what he wants.”

  “I can’t do what he wants,” I shouted so Parkman could hear me. “If I put down my gun, he shoots you and me.”

  “I haven’t killed him yet,” said the shaking killer.

  “Let me guess why,” I said. “Could be a couple of things. You haven’t got the stomach for it. Shooting two killers and Lipparini is one thing, but an innocent man is another. On the other hand, maybe you’ve been toying with the idea of finding some way to get rid of Parkman and make it look like he killed himself, knowing he’d get caught for killing the two at the gym.”

  “Thanks,” groaned Parkman inside the closet. “Thanks a lot. Give him ideas. I don’t have enough problems here without you coming in and giving him ideas.”

  “Like I said outside, put it down and come down the hill with me. Either that or I’m going to have to shoot you.”

  “Hey,” sobbed Parkman. “What about me?”

  “There’s no reason to shoot Parkman,” I reasoned. “But if that’s the way you want to go out, go ahead.”

  The shaking gun turned suddenly in my direction, or roughly in my direction, and kicked red, white, and loud three times. Inside the closet Parkman screamed. I didn’t shoot. The first two bullets he fired hit the ceiling. The last one took a piece of my right ear. A steady gun would have killed me. If he’d had another shot or two, that might have killed me too, but he was dry. I put my gun in my belt and tried to hide the exasperation in my voice as I said, “Is that enough? I can’t afford to keep this up till you get lucky. Look at my ear.”

  He looked at me, dropped his gun, and hurtled himself in my direction with a “Damn you.” He fought about as well as he could shoot. I wasn’t worried about a broken hand. I was no pro like Joe Louis and I had a lot to be angry about. I caught him with a short right to the cheek as I stepped to the side and another to the kidney as he tried to straighten up. If Ruby Goldstein or some other honest ref had been there, I would have been disqualified.

  “Enough?” I said, looking down at him.

  He held his possibly broken jaw as he tried to stand, and said, with a tear in his voice, “Enough.”

  “What’s going on out there?” shouted Parkman. “What the hell’s—”

  “I won,” I shouted. “I’ll let you out in a minute.”

  “A minute? A minute? I’ve been in here for days, goddamn it!”

  “Shut up,” I shouted, and helped the killer to his wobbly legs and into the stuffed chair.

  “Thanks,” he said. “You think my jaw is broken?”

  “No,” I said helpfully. “I don’t think you’d be talking if it was, but I could be wrong.”

  “I should have been more patient last night when you were taking that shower,” he said. “I’m not good at this.”

  “You were bad at it,” I admitted, “but you did have a few lucky breaks. You want to tell me about it before we go down?”

  Ralph Howard pushed back his white hair with a clean palm and told me his story.

  10

  “You’d better take care of your ear,” he said before he began. I thanked him, found a towel in the small bathroom, and clamped it against my head as I sat across from him in a wooden rocking chair and listened.

  “I invested heavily in a stable of boxers,” he said, reaching up to adjust a tie that was usually there but wasn’t any longer. “I didn’t know it would be so damn expensive. I kept sinking more and more into it with less to show for my investment. There was always the chance of a big fight, a decent purse, but they never came. Instead of making money I found myself supporting the families of six boxers, none of whom proved to be particularly impressive. The advice of Mr. Parkman was greatly responsible for my situation.”

  “I heard that,” Parkman shouted. “I was straight with you. I was straight with him, Peters. That’s the God’s—”

  “Al,” I yelled. “Shut up.”

  “Then Lipparini approached me at a restaurant,” Ralph went on.

  I checked to see if the bleeding had stopped. The towel was soaked. My ear was still bleeding.

  “Lipparini,” said Ralph, “was very sympathetic. He’d heard about my fighters, my situation, and said he wanted to help, that he could help with money but that he couldn’t get directly involved in ownership of fighters. It sounded good.”

  “So you agreed,” I prompted.

  “Obviously,” he said. “If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here now. Lipparini put up money and remained in the background for all of two weeks, at which time he made clear what his plan was. I was to use my social and business connections to arrange for fights between professional boxers in the Army and my fighters. Exhibitions would be fine.”

  “And you couldn’t do it?”

  “I tried to explain to him that I could not use the connections I had made through Trans World. Using our government contacts to make such connections would almost certainly fail and might result in my losing my job and reputation.”

  “And Lipparini wouldn’t listen,” I said.

  “He wouldn’t listen. He gave me deadlines, told me I had to pay back the money he had put up, even sent someone to try to frighten me. Almost ran me down on the street. Anne was with me.”

  “I know,” I said. “And you …”

  “… decided there was nothing to do but die,” he said. “I’d made contact with those two …”

  “Silvio and Mush,” I supplied. “The ones you shot at Reed’s.”

  “They seemed willing enough to listen to my plan,” Ralph said, running his hand against his jaw. “And I thought it would be safe. They wouldn’t help me and then tell Lipparini. They were as frightened of him as I was.”

  “So,” I cut in, checking my ear again, which seemed to have stopped bleeding, “you put up the last of your cash to pay them to beat some poor bum to death who happened to look like you. They gave him your clothes, shaved and showered him, and then smashed his face in and dumped him on the beach. The only problem was that they ran into Joe Louis doing some late roadwork on the shore, and he saw them.”

  “And you came along,” Ralph added.

  “And I came along,” I agreed. “Ralph, putting aside the fact that you paid to have some innocent jerk killed, didn’t you think about fingerprints, teeth?”

  “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t think anyone would doubt it was me if the body was found on my beach, in my clothes. And I’d let Anne know that I was worried.”

  “You were right,” I said, throwing the towel in the corner. “No one even thought about it, but Mush and Silvio told you that Louis had seen them. And they probably called you the morning after Lipparini talked to me and let you know that the pressure was on them. Did they want more money?”

  “Yes.” Ralph nodded. “I didn’t have any more to give them. Not enough to make a difference. I told them I’d give them five thousand each if they killed you. Then I followed you and made my way to Parkman’s office.”

  “You waited long enough for them to kill me,” I reminded him.

  “At that point,” he said, “I wouldn’t have minded. I’m being truthful.”

  “That doesn’t make you a nice person,” I reminded him. “When I went out in the gym with Louis, you stepped in, shot the two of them on the floor, and went out the window with Parkman.”

  “Speaking of whom,” Parkman moaned from the closet, “I would appreciate getting—”

  “Why did you try to kill me?” I asked. “I wasn’t getting close to you.”

  “But you were getting close to Anne,” he said, looking directly at me. “It was you she sent for when she thought she needed help. It was you who spent the night with her two days after I was dead.”

  “You aren’t dead,” I reminded him.

  “But she thought I was. And
then she gave you my clothes. I threw my life away so she could have the insurance, and she lets you through the door before my … the body is fully cold.”

  “And that’s why you tried to kill me at the Ocean Breeze, why you tore up my clothes?”

  “My clothes,” Ralph countered. “Not your clothes. My wife, not your wife. Your ex-wife.”

  “And you want me to give a little grudging admiration at this point,” I said. “All your sacrifices, for wife and empire, that kind of crap? You killed some poor bum and ran to keep Lipparini from getting your skin or the police from throwing the key away and your friends from knowing what you were mixed up in. You dumped Anne and went off to start clean, but it was too dirty.”

  “I left her with more than you did when you were divorced,” he said. “This is getting us nowhere. Let Parkman out and we’ll go. I really have nothing more to say to you.”

  “Not that easy,” I said, getting out of the rocker and moving to the closet. “You show up now and Anne loses the money, you, and her self-respect. She has to live with all the crap you’ve spread around.”

  I turned the key and opened the closet door. Parkman blinked in the sudden light like a rat with a flashlight in his face. His face was dirty, his flashy green suit jacket on the floor, and his shirt open. He twitched and stepped forward. “What the hell,” he grumbled, and when he spotted Ralph, “I’m going to sue you, you bastard.”

  Ralph looked up at the angry man and laughed, not a mean laugh but the laugh of a man giving in to hysteria.

  “Sit down, Al,” I said. “I’ve got a plan to make us all happy. I’ll get Howard’s wife to pay you the money he owes you. She’ll want to make good on his IOUs.”

  Ralph had stopped laughing suddenly and looked up. There were tears of laughter on his cheeks.

  “And what do I do in exchange for this?” Parkman said. “I’m not letting him go. I let him go and the cops think I hit Silvio and Mush, the cops and Lipparini’s bunch. No, you go turn him in and I walk out of this losing a grand instead of my life.”

  “All I’m asking for, Al,” I said, “is to give Ralph the opportunity to turn himself in.”

  “Why?” Parkman asked, wandering around the room. “He killed people all over the place. He was going to kill you and me.”

  “His wife’s a decent woman,” I said. “You keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way till tomorrow and you get two thousand dollars and my appreciation.”

  “Cash,” Parkman said. “No check. Cash. Saturday at the latest.”

  “No,” I said. “You might have to wait a while for her to put that kind of money together. No more insurance coming in, remember. She might get a few bucks for this cabin, but not four thousand.”

  “I’ve got your marker on this, Peters?” Parkman said.

  “You’ve got it,” I agreed. “Go down the hill. You’ll find my car at the bottom in some trees off to the left. I’ll be right there.”

  Parkman tried to regain some dignity by retrieving his jacket from the closet and sneering at Ralph, but Ralph wasn’t paying any attention. I waited till we heard Parkman going down the hill before I turned to Ralph.

  “I’ll meet you on the beach near your house at sundown,” I said. “I’ll keep things quiet, not a word to anyone. You meet me, and we go up to the house and you turn yourself in. I’ll prepare Anne for it before you get there.”

  “And if I say no?” he asked.

  I didn’t bother to answer. I left him sitting there and followed Parkman down the hill. Ralph could have a few hours to think about it, and I’d have time to make a few calls.

  I gave Parkman fifty bucks and dropped him at a hotel in Long Beach, telling him to stay in the room till someone came for him. He complained, but I reminded him of the two thousand and he shut up.

  Then I went up Pacific Coast to Sepulveda and found a diner in El Segundo. I made my phone calls and ordered a couple of cheeseburgers, fries, and a strawberry shake. When they came I was surprised that my appetite was gone. I got one burger and the shake down. I shoved the second burger and the fries at a kid who was eating a hot dog. He took them with a grown up “Thanks” followed by, “What happened to you, mister?”

  “A raccoon bit me,” I said, and went for the door.

  I made it to Santa Monica with about an hour to spare. Anne opened the door.

  “Explain,” she said. She was wearing a black skirt and sweater and a determined look.

  “I think we’ll have Ralph’s killer soon,” I said. “Maybe tonight.”

  “I told you,” she said, stepping back so I could come in, “that won’t bring Ralph back.”

  I considered saying, “You never can tell,” but kept my mouth shut.

  “The funeral’s tomorrow,” she said. “Will you be going?”

  “I’ll go to Ralph’s funeral,” I said.

  She stood in the hallway, her hands folded across her breasts, the dwindling light from the sun shining on her and giving her a red tinge. She looked beautiful.

  “Now,” she went on, “why all the questions about Ralph’s cabin and places we—”

  “A mistake,” I said, stepping past her toward the kitchen. “One of my dumb mistakes. Can I have something to eat?”

  “Anjelica’s gone for the day,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

  Through the window I could see the sun going down. She made a tuna sandwich, and I ate. Then I drank a beer and a coffee till the sun was just about gone. If someone knocked at the door, I’d have to do some fast explaining, some very fast explaining, but I wasn’t going to do that until I was sure.

  “I can’t—” she started to say, and then was stopped by a quartet of sounds outside. They might have been a backfiring truck, but they weren’t.

  “What?” she said.

  “Probably nothing,” I said casually, trying to keep the sandwich and the beer down. “I’ll go take a look. You have some cake or something? I’m really hungry.”

  “I’ll look around,” she said wearily, and I walked slowly toward the front door. It was hard to walk slowly, but I did. When I got to the porch I ran. I could see someone on the beach, but the sun was gone and I couldn’t see clearly who it was until I was about twenty feet away.

  There was a man standing there with a gun in his hand. Another man was lying in the sand, no more than five or six feet from where I’d found the body three nights earlier. This time the body really was Ralph Howard’s.

  “Son a bitch came up the beach and shot at me,” Jerry Genette said, turning his gun at me. “You set me up.”

  “Hold it,” I said. “I didn’t set you up. He was supposed to meet me on the beach and turn himself in. I told you. He thought you were me.”

  “And he tried to kill you?” he asked. “You set me up.”

  The gun came up at my chest.

  “Ralph Howard couldn’t hit a Jap sub if it came up the beach and stopped two feet in front of him. I told you Lipparini’s killer would be here and you could bring him in, make yourself a hero to the good guys and bad guys.”

  “You knew he’d try to kill you,” Genette said between clenched teeth.

  “I figured he might,” I admitted. “I hoped he wouldn’t.”

  I said it, but I wasn’t sure I meant it. Ralph Howard lying there dead wasn’t much easier to explain than Ralph Howard knocking at the door and saying, “I’m home dear, what’s for dessert?”

  “I’m not going to forget this, Peters,” Genette said.

  “What are you so upset about?” I asked reasonably. “When the cops come, I’ll explain it was all self-defense. They’ll understand.”

  “I’m not staying here to talk to cops,” Genette said. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  “I’ve got some friends up at the house watching,” I said, looking back as the lights went on in the house. “Let’s make a deal. You take Howard’s body away and make it disappear, and we forget about the whole thing. You have Lipparini’s killer, and
I have a case of amnesia.”

  He looked up and down the beach for a few seconds, chewed on the inside of his lip, thought about it, and said, “Okay.”

  I walked up to the house without looking back and went in. My knees were trembling and my foot was throbbing when I got to the kitchen and saw the slice of chocolate cake.

  “What was it?” Anne said, pouring coffee.

  “Nothing, truck,” I said, holding my hands under the table to keep them from shaking.

  “Well,” she said with a smile, “you’re in luck. I found your favorite, chocolate cake.”

  “My favorite,” I agreed, and wondered how I was going to get past the next few minutes.

  I left an hour later and called Parkman at the hotel in Long Beach.

  “Al, Howard is dead. Lipparini’s people got to him. You’re off the hook. They know he killed Mush, Silvio, and Lipparini and not you. A cop named Meara is going to come and get you later tonight. You tell him you got scared when Mush and Silvio got shot and you ran. You’ve been holed up since then.”

  “Wait,” he said.

  “Howard is really dead now,” I explained. “The widow will collect the insurance.”

  “You got a deal,” he said. “Do me a favor. Don’t let me see you again.”

  He hung up, and I drove to the Santa Monica police station, asked the desk man, who was reading a Collier’s, where Meara’s office was, and found my way. He was down a hallway on the main floor, a dark hallway. The door was dark wood. I knocked and Meara bellowed, “No one locks the damn doors in a police station, Peters.”

  I walked in. Meara was sitting behind the desk with his feet up on it. His jacket was off and his shoulder holster rested on his stomach. He was drinking from a coffee cup, but from the look on his face I didn’t think there was coffee in the cup.

  “I’ll tell you where Parkman is,” I said.

  He laughed, took a drink, and shook his head. “Parkman,” he said. “Parkman. I just got a report on our friend on the beach. You remember our friend on the beach, the one you and your nigger found.”