The Black Door

by Collin Wilcox

  “We can go through here,” Montez said, leading the way down a graveled path and through a gate set into a grape stake fence. “Mr. Russo’s out by the pool. He said you should come out there.”

  The pool, like the house and grounds, was more than merely adequate, but not ostentatious. Two men, both wearing bathing trunks, sat together in the shade of a small cabana. Both men were heavy-set and deeply tanned. One man, balding, wore heavy black-rimmed glasses; the other had thick, wiry gray hair, carefully groomed and trimmed. Both seemed common poolside types, paunchy and prosperous, relaxing in the sun.

  As we approached, neither rose. The balding man gestured to a nearby metal chair, which Montez pulled up for me.

  “Mr. Drake?” the balding man asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, still standing.

  “I’m Frank Russo. This is Martin Franklin. Sit down.”

  “Thank you.” I sat facing the two men. As I did, I realized that Montez, without speaking, had already disappeared. And now Martin Franklin got to his feet. He paused to drain the last of a tall drink, then said to Russo, “I’ll have everything ready for you to sign by tomorrow afternoon, Frank. Shall I send the papers over to the office, or here?”

  “Send them to the office. If I’m not there, Gloria’ll know where I am. She’ll get them to me.”

  “Good. Why don’t you bring them home with you tomorrow evening? I’ll pick them up after work.”

  “All right. Fine.”

  “I’d better be going.” Franklin glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “Right.” Franklin nodded to me, smiled automatically and began walking across the lawn toward the house. As I turned my gaze to Russo, I realized that he’d been studying me. His dark, quick eyes were small and intent behind his heavy glasses. His face, even with a Sunday’s growth of beard, had the smooth, bland, well-barbered look of the successful, fortyish businessman. The relaxed lines of his body, reclining in a cord-and-metal lounge chair, projected a semi-indolent aura of affluence and command, comfortably assured. His face was broad and swarthy, his jowls were beginning to sag. His torso, thickening, was still well-muscled. In his twenties, I decided, Frank Russo must have been a powerfully built young man.

  Now he gestured to a nearby table full of bottles, glasses and an ice bucket.

  “Drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Usually I never drink before five o’clock. Never. On Sundays, though, it’s different.” As if to make the point, he sipped from the glass at his side, then once more resumed his open appraisal of me.

  “You look different than I’d figured,” he said finally. “You look just like anyone. Anyone at all.”

  Something about the candid, almost ingenuous bluntness of the remark made me smile, involuntarily.

  “That’s the way I feel,” I answered. “Just like anyone else.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. Slowly he put the highball aside, with the air of a man whose thoughts were half-regretfully turning to business instead of to swimming or sunbathing.

  “I hear you’re a crime reporter up in San Francisco.”

  “That’s right.” I tried to keep my eyes steady as I met his narrow, dark gaze.

  “I also hear,” he continued, “that you’re one of these guys who can figure out where the body’s buried just by closing your eyes and getting a picture about it.” He paused, obviously waiting for a reply.

  “That’s right, too.” I decided not to elaborate. As long as he was asking the questions, I was content to answer, hopefully in a firm, quiet voice.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” he said bluntly, “that stuff’s all a bunch of crap.”

  I shrugged. “I know just how you feel. A few years ago, I’d’ve said the same thing myself.”

  He nodded, chewing reflectively at his lower lip. “That’s not a bad answer. I guess I’d say the same thing myself, if I was you.”

  I didn’t reply. Over the past few years I’d watched many people try, in many different ways, to bait me on the subject of clairvoyance. My best defense, I’d learned, was complete honesty.

  “Aidia Vennezio is a religious nut,” he said abruptly. “She’s superstitious. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

  “She wants to find out who murdered her husband. That’s what she told me.”

  “Did you tell her that you’d do it?” Now there was a certain watchful stillness in his manner.

  “I said I’d come down and talk to you.”

  “Did she pay you for coming?”

  I nodded. “She paid me a thousand dollars.” I’d already decided to tell him, because I was sure he must know.

  Now he smiled, apparently in genuine good humor. His mouth was full and wide, and the expression was almost a pleasant one.

  “You’re honest, anyhow. It’s hard to find an honest man these days.”

  “I know. I feel the same way.”

  “What’ll you do if I don’t like the idea of you nosing around?”

  “I’ll go back to San Francisco.”

  “Did you tell Aidia that?”

  “I’m not sure whether I did or not, in so many words. But that was the understanding. I can go back to San Francisco any time I like.”

  “And you’ll be a thousand dollars richer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s not bad dough. A thousand dollars a day. I could live on that.”

  “It doesn’t come along often, though.”

  He reached for his highball, then raised the glass to me. “Sure you won’t have one?”

  “No, thanks.”

  For a long moment he sipped the drink, watching me. Then, putting the glass aside, he sat up straighter. His manner became crisper as he said, “What d’you write about, exactly, when you report on crime?”

  I thought for a moment before saying, “Mostly, I suppose, it’s murders. That’s what the people like to read about. So that’s what we write.”

  “Ever write much on gambling?”

  “Not much. Most people gamble, one way or the other. So they don’t enjoy reading about it. It’s not news.”

  “Are there many bookie operations going in San Francisco?”

  “Yes,” I answered, as steadily as I could. “San Francisco’s no different than any other city. There’s always a place to put down a bet.”

  “Do you ever write anything about that?”

  “No, I never have.”

  “What about cops? Don’t you write about how they should close down the books?”

  I sighed. I thought I could see where the conversation was going. I didn’t like it, but I’d passed the point of squeamish scruples the day before. It seemed very long ago.

  “We get our news from the police,” I said. “You can’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

  “Have you ever heard of cops up in San Francisco taking payoffs?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of it. I’ve been on the crime beat for five years. I’ve heard a lot of things.”

  “Have you heard about me?”

  I realized I was gripping the arms of my chair. With a conscious effort I relaxed my hands, then settled back.

  “Yes, I’ve heard about you.”

  “What’ve you heard?”

  “I heard that you took over Dominic Vennezio’s job.”

  He nodded, almost benignly.

  “What else did you hear?”

  I felt the barb of a quick impatience. I’d never liked being quizzed. I didn’t like it now.

  “I’m a reporter,” I said. “I’ve heard a lot of things about you. Some of it I believe, some of it I don’t. I know that Dominic Vennezio had the reputation for being the head of the Outfit down here. If you’ve taken his job, then I imagine that’s what you’re doing. But I don’t really much care, if you want the truth. I’m not making any judgments. I’m a reporter, not a cop. I’ll admit that I wanted to talk to you—very much. You’re news, and that’s—”
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  “What’d Aidia say about how Dom got killed?” he interrupted.

  “She doesn’t know who did it. And she doesn’t think you do, either,” I answered promptly. I realized that, surprisingly, I’d taken courage from my own waspish monologue.

  “Do you believe her?”

  “How should I know?” I was aware that my voice had slipped to a plaintive note. I wished he’d go for his Sunday swim and let me go back to San Francisco.

  “How about this ESP?” he was asking. “How’s it done? I mean, do you go into a trance, or what?”

  “No, I don’t go into a trance. It’s difficult to explain in a few words, but basically it’s a simple matter of being in contact with your own subconscious. Or, at least, that’s what the experts say. As far as I’m concerned, I just—just wait for it to happen. And hope. It’s a very unpredictable thing, believe me.”

  “I read an article about you two or three years ago, in Newsweek.” He seemed to stress the title. “I was interested. I really was. I remember they said something about the subconscious, too, like you say. They said it was like an iceberg. The 90 per cent that’s under the water, that’s the subconscious. The other part is the way we think, just about anything.” He paused, frowning. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, “Did you go to college?”

  “Yes. I studied journalism.”

  “That fella that was just here …” He pointed to the empty chair. “He’s my lawyer.”

  “I gathered that.”

  He nodded, staring at me with eyes narrowed and jaw thrust forward. I was remembering the remark Montez had made about the college graduates Russo employed.

  I realized that I was beginning to squirm. And then, surprisingly, I realized that I wasn’t squirming from fear or nervousness, but rather from irritation and impatience. Russo, in the flesh, didn’t intimidate me. He was just another forceful, aggressive, self-made man who couldn’t manage his syntax as well as he managed his bank balance.

  “You know,” he said suddenly, his voice a little louder. “You know, I like you. You’re all right. The trouble with my business, you never have a chance to meet guys with any real class. Everyone’s either yessing you or else they’re out to get you. And you get tired of it. I been on my own since I was twenty years old. And I’ve done all right, too. But all my life I haven’t had anything but third-rate guys around me. Tough guys. That’s all they think about, how tough they are. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I know what you mean.”

  “Like Dominic. He was a tough guy. And look what it got him. Dead.”

  I decided not to answer. If he was ready to talk, I was ready to listen.

  “You know what I’ve got a good mind to do?” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve got a good mind to let you go ahead and see what you can find out. I’d like to see what happens.” Then, frowning, he added, “If you didn’t do this other—this crime reporting—you wouldn’t even be here, believe me. But when I heard about it, I figured you must be a guy who knows how things are. Right?”

  I felt myself nodding. I knew how things were. Larsen knew, too.

  “What I mean is,” he continued, his voice lowering to a more purposeful, more confidential note, “I’ve talked with a few reporters in my time. And I’ve talked to a few cops, too. I guess I don’t have to tell you that. And it’s like you said a little while ago, you’ve got to live and let live. But if someone gets out of line, no matter which side he’s on, he gets his knuckles rapped. Right?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. Right.”

  For a long, intent moment he stared directly into my eyes, still sitting hunched forward in his chair.

  “What I mean,” he said, “is that I don’t want you talking to anyone, without you first talk to me. That means Aidia, or the cops or anyone else. If you get a—a picture, you tell it to me first. Right?”

  I nodded, slowly.

  He raised his hand and deliberately pointed his index finger directly at my forehead. As he did, he closed one eye, sighting along the finger.

  “You’re sure you understand me, now? You’re a nice young guy. I like you, like I said. You’ve got class. So I wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstanding.” He lowered his forefinger, still staring at me with his small dark eyes. “You understand?”

  All I could think about was Larsen’s similar gesture: the long forefinger, pointing in warning.

  “Yes,” I answered. “Yes, I understand.”

  Immediately he smiled, settling back in his chair.

  “Good.” He said it loudly, heartily. Then, reaching to the bottle-laden table, he said, “Now we’ll drink. What’ll you have?”

  “Well, I’ll—I’ll have a vodka and tonic, if you’ve got it.

  “Perfect. That’s what I’m drinking.” Rapidly he filled the glasses and handed mine over.

  “Now,” he said briskly, “how’re you going to tackle this? Give me the rundown.”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I have to get all the information I can about Dominic Vennezio. Then I have to—to just start looking around until I find something. If I’m lucky, I get a feeling that it’s something special. But …” I broke off, and gulped down a third of my drink. My hand was unsteady, but the glass didn’t shake.

  “Well, you won’t get much from Aidia,” he said decisively. “I can tell you that. All she can think about is how Dom took up with another woman. That’s all she’s got on her mind. That and Dom’s murder.”

  “What can you tell me, Mr. Russo?”

  “Call me Frank. What’d they call you? Steve?”

  “Yes. Steve.”

  “Good. Well, there’s not much I can tell you that’d mean anything. I mean, Dom had his troubles, like the rest of us, but it wasn’t anything serious.”

  “What kind of troubles?”

  He thought about it a moment before saying carefully, “Maybe Aidia told you some of it. Frank always liked the girls. That’s all right. All of us do. But when he got hooked on this Hanson woman, things started to slide a little. He didn’t pay attention to business, like he should. That’s when I came out to the Coast, about a year ago.” He paused. Then, choosing his words, he said, “Some of the newspapers figured that the two went together: me coming out, and Dom getting killed. But you know as well as I do, it doesn’t happen like that anymore. Sure, Dom didn’t have the zip he used to have. And, sure, I was running things, mostly, for the past six months or so. But Dom, he didn’t really care. He had his. He had more real estate than you have ribbons for your typewriter. There wasn’t any beef; he would’ve retired. It was all worked out, as a matter of fact. Another year, and he’d’ve been out to pasture, playing with his girl friend.”

  “Then you must’ve been disturbed by his murder.”

  “You’re damn right I was. I can tell you, things were pretty rough around here.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, no one knew where they stood. They were nervous. I mean, they didn’t know what to think. Especially the way Dom was killed. It was like—well, it was like the old days.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, it was a clean job. It looked like a professional job. It still does.” He said it almost indignantly. “That’s what I say, everyone got nervous. Even the cops. Maybe you know that we’ve got things pretty well under control here in La Palada. I mean, we’ve got the lowest crime rate in the state. So when this thing blew up, everyone got hot as hell. I even had to go back East and explain things. As a matter of fact …” He smiled to himself, in covert satisfaction. “As a matter of fact, when Aidia came to me, all wide-eyed, and said she was going to hire you, I first of all let her think I didn’t like it. Maybe at first I didn’t. But then, when I’d had a chance to think about it, I told her to go ahead, provided you talked to me first. I was even thinking of hiring a private detective to look into things for me. I didn’t do it, but I was thinking about it. So now …” He waved his glass at me. “Now Aidia’s spending her money. And just as long
as we all understand each other, nobody’ll get burned.”

  “What would happen if I should discover that the murderer was actually an—associate of yours?”

  “That’d depend on who it was and why he did it. But that’d be my business.” He looked at me meaningfully. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you. Right?”

  I nodded. I was feeling a little more irked each time he stared at me with his bully’s black eyes and said, “Right?” I finished my drink, anxious to be gone.

  “You don’t really have any idea who did it, then?” I asked.

  He spread his hands. “None at all. I’m as much in the dark as Aidia, except that I’m not as bugged. Everything’s settled down, and Dom was dead weight anyhow. There’s no sweat. I’d still like to know who did it, but I’m not hurting.” He drained his own drink, glanced at his watch and heaved himself to his feet. As I also stood, he looked me up and down, smiling.

  “You know,” he said, clapping me heavily on the shoulder and turning me toward the grape stake fence. “You know, you don’t look to me like a real rugged guy. You’d better take care of yourself. Don’t take any chances, and stay loose. If you need anything, let me know. Call me anytime. I have someone that answers the phone, most of the time. I’ll give him the word. He’ll know where to find me, and he’ll put you right through.”

  “All right, I will.”

  “Good.” We’d reached the gate, which my host opened. Montez was standing by the Buick, waiting. Russo extended his hand.

  “Good luck, Steve,” he said smiling. Then, allowing the smile to fade, he said, “And be sure and remember what I said. Everything I said.”

  “Thanks, Frank. I will.”