“Even her folks?”
“Even them. For now.”
“Fine with me,” the Indian said. “While we’re on the subject, your new friend Mr. Fairbrass called here a couple of hours ago, trying to get you.”
“He wants to know what’s going on,” Horn said. “I’ll call him later. Don’t like keeping him in the dark, but I got too many questions to answer before I tell him where his girl is.”
“Now, I don’t want to get you started worrying about something brand new,” Mad Crow said. “But. . . you’ve got Scotty dead and this guy Del Vitti dead. Both of them with a connection to Clea. Have you been thinking that somebody out there might—”
“Come after me?”
The Indian nodded.
“I’ve thought about it,” Horn said. “And I don’t think so. If they wanted to get at me, they’ve had plenty of time. It wouldn’t take much trouble to find out where I live. If they knew that I was in old man Bullard’s office with Scotty that night and saw the pictures, then I know I’d be on their list. But I don’t think they’ve made that jump. As far as anybody knows, I’m just the guy who used to be Clea’s daddy and who’s been trying to find her as a favor to the man who’s her daddy now.”
“All right,” Mad Crow said. “Hope you’re right. One more thing: I don’t feel good about. . . you know, what I did. Is there anything I can do to help you out?”
“Sure is,” Horn said. “I’ve been thinking about that while we sat here. Two things: You can have one of your boys bring me a Blue Ribbon.”
“And. . . ?”
“I want to meet Vinnie.”
“That’s not going to happen, John Ray.”
“Yes, it is, when you know why. Remember I said I could tell you some things about him? Well, I’m going to tell you now.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When Horn was finished talking, they sat quietly for a while. Behind the bar, the bartender had turned on a radio as he wiped down his collection of glasses. Horn could make out a melancholy song he had once heard in a movie. He couldn’t remember the title, but it was one of those New York movies about old friends moving in separate worlds, one straight, one criminal, and he seemed to recall Richard Conte, the bad friend, dying in a church, finally repentant at the end.
The Indian coughed into one of his big hands and said quietly, “So he’s the one?”
“I think so,” Horn said. “If his police record tells us anything, he’s one of the boys who played games up at the lodge. And I’d bet a month’s take from your tables, if I had it, that he had Scotty killed.”
Mad Crow looked as if he’d swallowed something vile. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “I would pick him to throw in with, wouldn’t I?”
“Come on. You already knew he wasn’t any choirboy.”
“This is different, and you know it. What are you going to do?”
“Get Clea home soon as I can. After that, I’ll think of something. First off, I’d like to meet your friend, just get a look at him.”
“That’s all?”
He nodded.
“What if he knows who you are? I mean, knows you’re the one who was looking for her?”
“Still looking for her,” Horn corrected him. “Story is, she hasn’t been found yet, remember? And chances are he does know who I am, since Del Vitti was working for him all the time he was holding on to Clea. But your friend Vincent doesn’t know how much I know about him. Anyway, I still want a look at him. Can you set it up?”
“I don’t know.” Mad Crow’s face was creased with doubt. Horn was not used to seeing the big man so unsure. If I didn’t know him better, Horn thought, it might even look like fear.
“He always travels with somebody,” Mad Crow continued. “Now that Del Vitti’s dead, it might be this guy Falco.”
“I don’t care. If they see me, they’re not going to learn anything about me they don’t already know. I’m still your friend, I’m still looking for the girl. Nobody needs to know I saw the pictures or I suspect Vinnie of anything.”
“What’s my excuse for having you sit in?”
“Hmm. I guess you can tell ‘em you’re working me more into your business—training me to be your faithful assistant, that kind of thing.”
Mad Crow shot him one of his twisted smiles. “I get it. Just like the movies, only I get to be the leading man this time.”
“Just don’t push it.”
* * *
In Mad Crow’s office, Horn asked the operator to ring Paul Fairbrass’ office in Long Beach.
“I tried to reach you all day yesterday,” Fairbrass said after answering. “I called your number until late last night. Where were you?”
“Why do you care?”
“I was concerned, that’s all. Especially after you told me you had that encounter with Tommy Dell.”
“Where did you get Mad Crow’s number?”
“Iris told me you were friends,” Fairbrass said. “I thought he might know—”
“Don’t go tracking me down, okay?”
“All right. But I’d like for you to stay in touch occasionally.”
“Mr. Fairbrass, I told you I’d let you know whenever I learned anything.”
“And you haven’t?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to let me know once a day or so.” The man sounded reasonable, but something troubled Horn. In the back of his mind was the suspicion that Clea was resisting the idea of going home because her new father had mistreated her in some way. He admitted that it was far-fetched and probably due to his knowledge of the poison in Clea’s past—that she had once been abused by a group of men. But until he knew Fairbrass was a good father to her, he was not inclined to cut the man any slack.
“Look, I’m not your employee,” he told him. “I’m not someone you can send off to get his face sliced up, and then stick a few extra dollars in his pay envelope. You came to me, and I’m going to do this my way. You can’t fire somebody who’s working for free.”
On the other end of the long-distance line, he could hear the low background hum of Fairbrass’ plant. He wondered idly how many people worked there and just how rich the man was.
“All right,” the voice muttered. “I don’t like you, nor do I like the way you’re handling this. I find it very easy to understand why Iris divorced you. But nevertheless, I appreciate what you’re doing, and if you find Clea, it’ll all be worthwhile. So. . . .”
“I’ll call you when I know something,” Horn said, and hung up.
* * *
As he parked the Ford in front of Maggie’s place, he saw Maggie and Clea standing at the pasture fence, eye to eye with a bay mare. The scent of warm grass tickled his nose and the sun baked the back of his neck as he walked over to them. Clea was wearing a pair of dungarees, loafers, and a brightly colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Maggie held a paper bag, and they were feeding the mare wedges of apple from the bag. “Careful, honey,” he heard Maggie say. “Just hold still and let her take it.”
Spotting him over her shoulder, Maggie walked over to meet him. “My clothes fit her pretty good,” she said in a low voice, taking him by the arm and leading him away from the fence.
“How’s she doing?”
“Not good. I let her take a bath and gave her something to wear. She even ate a little breakfast. But she doesn’t seem right.”
“What do you mean?” He regarded Clea, who still stood with her back to them.
“Hard to describe. She talks about things, but she’s not really there. It’s like last night, only then it made sense—she was tired and scared. Now she’s rested and all, but when you talk to her, she doesn’t look at you. She says thank you, and she asks if there’s any salt, that sort of thing. But there are
things on her mind. She asked me what I would do if anybody ever tried to hurt my horses. She wanted to know if I thought Bonnie— the mare who’s about to foal—was going to die. I try to answer her, but I’m not sure she even hears me.”
“Do you think it’s because—”
“Her friend was killed? I wouldn’t be surprised. Remember, she must have heard those gunshots real clear where she was hiding. It would mess up anybody.” She brushed the hair out of her face. “I’ve got to get back to the stable,” she said. “The mare—”
“How close is she?”
“Pretty close. Next day or so, I think.”
“You go ahead. Any chance I could take one of your horses out today?”
“Sure. Try Miss Molly, the hungry one Clea’s been feeding. Take her through the pasture and out the north gate, you’ll find lots of trails. You need anything, ask one of the boys.”
He touched her arm. “Thanks.”
He walked over to Clea at the fence. “Hey, little girl.”
“Hey,” she said without looking at him. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and looked freshly washed. Miss Molly, having disposed of the apple, stood a few paces away, regarding the two of them with a calm sideways look.
“How you doing?”
“All right.” It was a child’s voice, high-pitched and with minimal inflection. She turned her head and looked at him, studying him as if for the first time. Her expression said nothing. He couldn’t tell if she was happy in his company.
“Do you remember last night?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, turning her gaze back over the pasture. “Somebody shot Tommy, didn’t they?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Was it you?”
“Oh, God. No, honey. It wasn’t me. Don’t think that.”
“I saw him there in the hall. He was dead, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, he was. I know he was your friend, and I’m sorry. I want you to know you’re going to be all right now.”
She nodded.
“Do you think you might be ready to go home?”
“No.”
“Want to tell me why?”
“No. Can I stay here?”
“Sure, for a while. Do you like Maggie?”
Clea nodded. “She’s nice. She showed me the mare that’s having a baby.”
“She knew you when you were almost a baby,” he said. “You probably don’t remember, though. Listen, she said we could take out one of the horses. You want to go for a ride?”
“I suppose,” she said.
He led Miss Molly to the stable, where he saddled and bridled her, then swung himself up. It was his first time on a horse in years, and it felt both strange and comforting to be sitting there, wearing his ordinary clothes, feeling the large animal tensing and shifting under him, trying to read the horse as the horse tried to read him.
He kicked his left foot back out of the stirrup and reached down for Clea. She put her left foot in the stirrup and took his left hand in both of hers, and he swung her up behind him.
“Let’s go,” he said, touching the horse lightly with his heels and guiding her out into the pasture. They walked the circuit twice, following the fence. Then he leaned down and opened a gate at the far end and they rode the mare out onto a dirt road that took them north along a scattered collection of other ranches and open land. After a while they were in the foothills and could look back on the enormous reach of the San Fernando Valley.
The sun was hot but soothing, and the mare had an easy gait. Horn adjusted his fedora to keep the sun off his neck. Clea rode quietly behind him, her arms around his waist, as she had ridden many years earlier when he had introduced her to horses. He reminded her of this as they rode, and he talked of other things too, things she had done as a child. He was trying to pierce the wall, find the key that would unlock her defenses, would allow him to connect with the Clea who had whooped and hollered her way through a hundred childish games they played when she was seven, eight, nine. At the same time, he had the vague hope that she might remember and disclose something that would help him prove who killed Scotty. But she had been a tiny child when she stood before that sinister, all-seeing camera, and Horn’s hope was small and forlorn.
None of his words seemed to have an effect on her. After more than an hour, they reached a crest that gave them views both north and south.
“That’s the old studio ranch, a few miles off thataway,” he said, pointing northwest. “Your mother brought you out once to watch us shoot a movie. See that little mountain? That’s Dome Rock. We had a picnic there, remember?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, shifting behind him. “I’m getting hot. Can we go back?”
* * *
He found Maggie in the stable, peering over the railing into the pregnant mare’s stall. The mare was prone, hugely swollen, her breathing heavy. “John Ray, meet Bonnie,” she said quietly. “Her last one was stillborn, couple of years ago. This time it’s going to work. Me and her, we talked it over and decided this one’s going to be healthy.”
“Nice to have it worked out ahead of time.” He went down on his haunches, reached through the lower slats and rubbed the mare’s great, bony head. “She looks serious about this.”
“She is. When you put eleven months into something, you don’t want to fail. Oh, I just remembered,” she said, patting her shirt pocket. “You got a call a while ago.” She handed him a slip of paper.
“Alphonse Doucette.” He read the name out loud and studied the number. The name sounded familiar, but he didn’t know the telephone exchange. “What the hell? I’m supposed to be hiding out here, and everybody with a phone knows how to—”
“It was Joseph,” she interrupted. “He said this person called for you at the club, and he was passing it on. Said he’s getting tired of being your switchboard girl.”
He went into Maggie’s place and dialed the number. After several rings a voice answered, “Dixie Belle.”
“Alphonse Doucette there?”
“Hang on.”
A moment later another voice came on the line, and this time he recognized the Creole.
“It’s John Ray Horn.”
“Howdy-do,” the Creole said. “You recovered from the other night?”
“I’m just fine,” Horn said.
“You look like a man can take a punch,” Doucette said, his voice soft and musical, as before.
“Maybe not as good as Bob Steele, though.”
“No, not as good as him. Tough little nut, that man.”
“What’s on your mind? Besides asking about my health, I mean.”
“I thought you and me, we might talk.”
“What about?”
“Just things.”
“Want to give me an idea?”
The Creole was silent for a moment. Horn heard voices and the clink of glasses and guessed that the other man was standing near the bar in the club’s main room.
“It about that man wound up dead last night,” he said finally. “Up in the hills. And about what you said you looking for.”
* * *
It was a few minutes after five when Horn parked the Ford just off Central, and the Dixie Belle wouldn’t be open for an hour or so. As instructed, he went up the alley and in by way of the back door. Passing the scene of his one-sided encounter with Del Vitti and Falco, he remembered the feel of his knees on the bricks and the blood in his mouth.
Inside, the club was fully lit, and he saw some of the staff cleaning the carpet and wiping down tables. The place felt cool, but the smell of liquor and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air like the last, sour note from a horn player who had stopped caring about his music.
The Creole, who was standing at the cash register behind the bar talking to the bartender, mot
ioned him toward a barstool and then came around to sit next to him.
“How you doin’?”
Horn nodded. “Now I remember why I never liked walking into a nightclub in the daytime.”
“I know what you mean. Place never look as good in the daylight. Or smell as good. Aftershave and ladies’ perfume add a lot, once the people start comin’ in. You don’t want to see a nightspot ‘til the lights are low and the music is going, and it got that. . . mystery. Am I right?”
The bartender brought over a cup, filled it from a coffee pot, and pushed it toward the Creole, then looked questioningly at Horn, who nodded. The man brought him a cup and filled it.
“So what kind of a name is Doucette?” Horn asked him.
“That’s French. ‘Cause my daddy was part French, and his daddy too. Louisiana, where I come from, most people are a mixture of one thing or another. We’re like gumbo, all different flavors mixed up.”
Horn sipped at his coffee. It was strong and, like the tea he was served the other night, it carried a hint of chicory. “I appreciate the hospitality, but I’m a little confused. The last time I saw you, you told me if I came back here I was going to get tossed out on my rear.”
“I did say that, sure enough,” the Creole said in a mock-serious tone. “Thing is, I learned a few things in the last day or so.”
“I’m listening.”
“First off, I heard that man you call Tommy, he been found dead in his house last night.”
“So?”
“So I figured you caught up with him, that’s all.”
“Now wait a minute—”
The Creole held up both hands. “Ain’t none of my business. Whatever happen to that man, I don’t care.”
“Just wait a minute,” Horn repeated. “Let’s say he is dead. How do you even know about it?”
“That’s easy. Somethin’ in the paper.” Doucette reached in his back pocket, pulled out a folded newspaper, and slid it along the slick bar top. “Page three.”
Horn unfolded the paper, the afternoon tabloid Mirror, and turned to the third page. Gun Victim Found in Hillside Home, the headline read, followed by a few inches of text on the discovery of Anthony Del Vitti’s body by police following a call from a neighbor. The police said Del Vitti had a record of violent crime and was known to hang out with gangsters. The neighbor had reported a conversation with a tall white man in the front yard. But the lighting was bad, he said, and he was not sure if he would recognize the man again.
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