Rafferty's Rules: A Rafferty P.I. Mystery

by W. Glenn Duncan

  “I’ve got an idea about that, too. Come on. Please?”

  Over coffee, I brought Hilda up-to-date. Fran, too, though she already knew most of it. It was almost three when I finished.

  “So,” I said, “I think Fran should stay here for a while. Then I can keep an eye on both of you. Not that I expect any trouble. They’re not likely to get any farther than Fran’s place. And maybe my house.”

  “Rafferty,” Hilda said, “what if I’m not ready for a roommate?”

  “Well, I can’t take her home with me. That’s back into the combat zone. So, if you absolutely refuse, Fran goes. Right now. She’ll have to take her chances on the street. I suppose she could throw a brick through a jewelry store window and hope to end up in the slammer.”

  Fran bit her lip. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Hilda hasn’t said no yet.”

  “No,” Hilda said, “I haven’t said no yet. I just hadn’t realized Rafferty had settled on celibacy as a lifestyle.”

  “Ouch. Okay, listen. It’s only for a few days, maybe a week. By then, it should all be over. We’ll find Fran a new job, she can move back into her apartment, we’re all home free.”

  “Suppose Hilda lets me stay here,” Fran said. “What am I supposed to do for money? Though I won’t need much if all I can do is lie around all day.”

  “No lying around for you, cookie,” I said. “You want a fresh start, now’s your chance. You can clean up here while Hilda’s at work. Fix the meals. Things like that.”

  “A cleaning lady?” Fran said. “You want me to scrub toilets?”

  “Whatever’s needed. It pays thirty a day, plus room and board.”

  “Rafferty …” Hilda said.

  “No, it makes sense,” I said. “Scrubbing toilets is a step up from where she was headed at the Dew Drop Inn. And why would you turn down free maid service? I’ll spring for her pay.” I spread my hands like the pope at Easter. “What more could you ask?”

  Fran looked at Hilda warily. “Is he like this often?”

  “Yes,” Hilda said. “Too goddamned often, if you ask me.” She shrugged. “If we do this, you should know I don’t like living with other women. So we would need ground rules. The master bathroom is mine. I have no interest whatsoever in your family photos or sex life or star sign. And if you touch my clothes or listen to rock music, it’s good-bye, roomy.”

  “Okay,” Fran said. “I can deal with that.”

  “Good girls,” I said. “Make nice.”

  Chapter 16

  “You let them get away?” Marge Mollison stubbed out her cigarette and gave me a sour you-can’t-get-good-help-anymore look.

  We were outside again, around the table on the Mollison patio, eating lunch al fresco like The Beautiful People. The cold ham was wonderful. The potato salad had too much dry mustard.

  “They didn’t get away, exactly. They’re still in town, probably. Shouldn’t take too long now.” I tried the potato salad again. The second bite was better.

  George ignored his food and toyed with a wine glass. He stared at the white metal tabletop, where Becker’s wallet lay like an ugly black toad on a lace lily pad.

  I nudged the wallet with my finger. “Two of them are out of the way. Becker and the one they called Frog. They’re dead. Too bad you missed it, Marge.”

  George winced.

  “You’re sure this Frog person was involved?” Marge asked. She reached for another cigarette, found the pack empty, and shook a small brass bell near her place setting.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “The reports you gave me mentioned a man named Frog. And before Becker died, he said Frog had … um, known Vivian. That might not stand up in court, but it’s close enough for me. I’m going to charge you for him.”

  Marge nodded, then smiled brief thanks when Consuela put a fresh pack of Virginia Slims beside her plate. Marge opened it with taut, precise movements, used a blood-red fingernail to pry out the first cigarette, lit it, and dragged a half inch of incinerated tobacco into her lungs. “Very well,” she said, “we owe you ten thousand dollars. When will you get the other three?”

  “You owe me six thousand. I killed Frog because he had a loaded shotgun and the situation had turned to worms around me. I didn’t have time to handle him any other way. On the other hand, Becker was just plain stupid. He forgot it’s the size of the gun that counts, not the size of the person holding it.”

  Marge shook her head. “How and why doesn’t matter. They’re dead. That’s what counts.”

  “Point is,” I said, “I didn’t go out to waste them because you offered a premium for scalps. They chose the way to go. You didn’t, I didn’t. Stop trying to buy what isn’t for sale. Pass the ham, please.”

  George eased another slice of meat onto my plate. The serving fork clattered when he put it down.

  “Rafferty,” he said, “I think you know I don’t care about, ah, revenge.” Marge frowned at him. He went on. “Marge may feel it’s … but I … I wish you could cooperate with the police on this.”

  He leaned forward on his elbows and I noticed again how much he looked like John Glenn. But older, even though he wasn’t.

  “And what bothers me,” George said, “is that you probably can’t do anything except kill them. The police aren’t interested. They made that quite clear.” He sounded wistful.

  I nodded and swallowed. “Don’t be too hard on the cops, George. They have problems, too.”

  Marge sniffed. Who started that old cliché about the weaker sex?

  “The cops will move if we come up with evidence,” I said. “I’m working on that. I have an eyewitness who can place Turk at Lake Texoma, talking to Holman the night before Vivian disappeared. It’s not airtight, but it is pretty good circumstantial evidence. Probably good enough to convict, given the lousy press the bikers get. Especially since this Turk character is bald, big, clean-shaven. He stands out. A jury would believe that sort of eyewitness testimony. The rest of it isn’t so good. My witness can testify another biker was named Smokey-something, but I doubt that part will hold up. Nicknames aren’t usually solid enough. And the third one—this Stomper character—well, we’ve got nothing solid on him.”

  “They run in a pack,” Marge said. “Doesn’t that help?”

  “Some. The trouble is, the guy we can lock in—Turk—is the least likely to come in alive.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked George.

  I finished my ham and pushed the plate away. “Nice meal. Thank you,” I said. “Last night, Turk and the two who must be Stomper and Smokey Joe stared down the barrel of a Ruger Blackhawk. A friend of mine would have killed them if they’d sneezed. They knew that. It didn’t bother Turk.” I shrugged. “It’s hard to explain if you haven’t seen it. It’s the way a man stands, how he holds his head, how he looks at the gun.”

  George moved his wine glass in small circles on a drink coaster. “You can tell that about a man by watching him?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You can tell.”

  “What about the others?” Marge asked.

  “Smokey Joe and Stomper? Typical bikers. Fat, ugly, beards. Dirty. They’re tough, I think, but not as tough as Turk. Or me.”

  Marge kept it barely below a taunt. “Is Turk tougher than you?”

  “Maybe. We’ll find out.”

  She took another drag on her smoke without breaking eye contact. “And if you have to kill him?”

  “Then I will,” I said. “Nobody’s tougher than a bullet.”

  Consuela cleared the plates and silverware away, poured coffee all around, and replaced Marge’s small ashtray with the big stone one. She also smiled at me. I winked and she dropped her eyes.

  “When you’re quite finished flirting with the servants,” Marge said, “perhaps you’ll answer George’s question about getting the police involved.”

  I lit my pipe and let them wait. When it was burning nicely, after it was tamped and tapped, after I had done all that fiddling we pipe sm
okers are prone to do, I said, “Like I say, the problem is evidence. It would help a lot if Vivian could identify the bikers.”

  George shook his head slowly. Marge finished a sip of coffee, carefully put her cup down, and said, “Out of the question.”

  “You’re not making it easy.”

  “Easy?” Marge snapped. “How easy do you think it would be for Vivian to testify? You’ve seen her. Can you imagine how some slimy defense lawyer would treat her?” She held her head a little sideways and pantomimed amazement. “And you didn’t try to escape, Miss Mollison? Not even once in ten months? Why not? Tell the jury about your sexual experience before you seduced these men, Miss Mollison. How many lovers have you had in the past month?”

  Marge dropped the act and spoke harshly. “When I was fifteen, my older sister was raped, Rafferty. She made a mistake. She reported it to the police. I still remember the trial and how they distorted things. How they called her a whore. And I remember lying awake at night, listening to Barb cry. I wanted to comfort her and I couldn’t, because Barb couldn’t bear to have anyone touch her. Not even me, her sister.” She slapped her hand flat on the table. Coffee slopped out of the cups. “I will not put Vivian through that, Rafferty. Never!”

  No one spoke for several moments. There wasn’t much to say.

  Consuela mopped up coffee and brought clean cups and saucers. As she poured a fresh round, a bell bonged softly inside the house.

  “I’ll get it,” George said. “Go ahead here, Consuela.”

  George came back with Ed Durkee and Ricco. “These gentlemen are from the police, dear,” he said to Marge.

  “Well, I’ll be—” Ricco said. “Look who’s here.” He wore a blue leisure suit with white stitching that high-lighted the lapels and pockets, a pale pink shirt and white shoes.

  Ed Durkee wore a brown suit. What else?

  Marge, with genteel hostess noises, got Ed and Ricco seated, coffee-ed and offered them lunch, which they refused. During the to-ing and fro-ing, I slipped Becker’s wallet into my hip pocket.

  “Now then, Lieutenant, what can we do for you?” Marge said brightly.

  “Mrs Mollison,” Ed rumbled. “Mr Mollison. There were two shooting incidents last night that may be related to your daughter’s disappearance last year.”

  “Oh, my,” Marge said. “George, did you hear that? What happened?” Her act was as transparent as a wet T-shirt, but Ed didn’t react. There’s nothing like sitting across from five million dollars to curb a cop’s tongue.

  Ed went through the Joe Zifretti story step-by-step. Marge did a body-language number on him, with wide-eyed looks and open palms and leaning forward. George stared at the table legs. Ricco studied the house and grounds slyly, like he wondered if they would take a thousand down and three hundred a month on a conditional sales contract.

  Ed said, “Your friend Rafferty here tells us he’s looking for the men who took your daughter. This Zifretti was indirectly involved.” He told the Mollisons about Joe and Tony Zifretti, rolled his eyes a little at Marge’s overacting, and went on to Fran.

  “You’ll be interested in this, Rafferty,” he said. “Fran Rosencrantz—the one Ricco told you about in my office—walked off from her job last night. The bartender and two of the other girls say she left with a man. Male Cauc. Six-two, two-twenty, curly brown hair. Sound like anyone you know.”

  “Why, Ed, that was me! After the Zifretti hit, I was afraid Fran might be next, so I told her about it and we got the hell out of there. Can’t be too careful, you know.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” Marge murmured in a bitchy tone.

  “Yeah, well,” Ricco piped up, “about the time you left, all hell busted loose in the parking lot. This morning, we got two bikers in the morgue. But I suppose you missed all that.”

  “We must have gotten away just in time. But now that you mention it, I did hear something as we drove away. Like a truck backfiring. Something like that.”

  “Cute,” Ed said. “At least two shotguns and something else, maybe a big bore handgun, and you think you heard a truck.”

  “Well, it sounded like a big truck.”

  “I bet it did.”

  “So who were they?” I said.

  Ricco said, “One of them was a scumbag—pardon my French, ma’am—named Willard Rumbitt. We don’t know about the other one yet. He didn’t have no ID on him.”

  I said, “Gang fight, probably.”

  “Naw,” Ricco said. “The John Doe was four, five blocks away with his gu—Uh, he couldn’t have made it that far with his belly missing.”

  “Rumbitt,” Marge said. “Rumbitt, Rumbitt. Why, that name sounds almost like a frog, doesn’t it?”

  Ed and Ricco stared at her. I smiled and kicked her under the table. George looked nervous.

  Ed stroked his wobbly chin. “Maybe we should talk to the Rosencrantz woman,” he said. “Maybe she saw something.”

  “Don’t see how, Ed,” I said. “She was with me.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “That’s hard to say. I’m sure she’s safe enough. Of course, if there was a formal charge or an official request, I might be able to find her and convince her to talk to you. With her lawyer present, naturally.”

  Ed gave me a long look, then he said, “No, not yet, anyway. I’ll let you know.”

  Ricco looked surprised, but then Ricco would have pushed it to avoid the appearance of backing down. Little guys tend to be funny that way.

  “Seen Cowboy lately?” Ed asked.

  “Been a fair while,” I said. “Last I heard, he had a horse ranch—or whatever you call it—out toward Denton.”

  “He’s still there. You know, there were two pickups stolen last night, too.”

  “Only two? Must have been a slow night.”

  “Only two I’m interested in,” Ed said. “One of them wrecked three motorcycles parked across from the Dew Drop Inn.”

  “Kids,” I said. “Probably couldn’t reach the brake pedal.”

  “And the other one was dumped in Grand Prairie.”

  “Grand Prairie’s a long way from the Dew Drop Inn. If you’re trying to make a connection.”

  “I know where Grand Prairie is. It’s not all that far. And one of the Dew Drop girls says the same make and color pickup was parked out front last night.”

  “Lots of pickups on the road, Ed. Pick one, you’ll find another one just like it somewhere.”

  “Yeah, that’s true,” Ed said. He slurped his coffee. “Cowboy always liked pickups.”

  “All cowboys like pickups. They’ve replaced the horse, I hear. Come-a-ti-yi-yippy-yippy-ay. The Marlboro man double-clutches.”

  Ed heaved himself up. “Wish I could spend the day playing word games with you, Rafferty. Some of us have to work.” Ricco stood up, too, and looked longingly at the tennis court and swimming pool.

  Marge showed them out. George went along a few steps behind. He brushed the edge of the sliding glass door with his shoulder and jumped nervously.

  I waited at the table. With any luck, Consuela might come out and smile at me.

  Marge and George didn’t return for a long time. When they did, George was flushed and stubborn. Marge looked angry.

  “George wants to fire you,” she said to me. She ignited another Virginia Slim and stood hipshot, with her right elbow resting on her left fist. “Go on, George. Tell him why.”

  “I just don’t think … Well, it won’t do Vivian any good, and with people dying, maybe—”

  “You’d shoot a rabid dog, wouldn’t you?” Marge said. There was contempt in her voice.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “Let me guess. That’s either Margaret Thatcher, Indira Gandhi, or Lady Macbeth, I’m not sure which.”

  Marge huffed at me. She was a world-class huffer.

  “George,” I said, “let me save you the trouble of asking. No. You’re too late. I can’t stop now.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. It’s true
none of this will do Vivian any good. You should have known that from the first. What do you think, we can say King’s X and walk away? The bikers are stirred up now. I can’t quit and spend the next year looking over my shoulder because you lost your nerve, for Christ’s sake! I have a lady to protect—”

  “Well,” Marge said, “I hardly think this motorcycle slut is—”

  "‘Not Fran. My lady. Turk and his pals know about me. They might try me when Hilda’s around. I won’t risk that. You can quit, I suppose. But I can’t.”

  George flapped his arms in frustration and went to stand at the other end of the patio.

  Marge laughed bitterly. “My God, how incredibly chivalrous. I suppose I don’t need to pay you now, since you intend to do the work anyway.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s a serious suggestion, Marge. I think I’m just handy and a better target than your husband right now. But okay, let’s say you fire me. The question is, what would I do, right?”

  I held up a finger for point one. “I’d forget about getting legal evidence. Instead, I’d concentrate on driving them away. Maybe I could convince them the stakes are too high. Maybe I’d have to kill them.”

  I found another finger and showed it to her. “Second if you decide not to pay, you would never know how it turns out. Your blood lust would simmer unslaked. How’s that for a turn of phrase?”

  I raised a third finger, but couldn’t think of anything it stood for. I finally said, “And I’d take you off my Christmas card list. That would fix you.”

  “You have a mouth like a snotty kid, Rafferty.” Marge sighed and rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “You’re not fired. Go back to work.”

  “You’ll pay an extra nine grand just to hear the gory details? You have expensive tastes.”

  “You’re not expensive, Rafferty. In my position, wouldn’t you give two weeks’ pay to know when this nightmare was over?”

  Put that way, she had a good point.

  Chapter 17

  Rafferty’s Rule Six says: Don’t forget the money.

  I went to Dermott’s office for my six thousand dollars. Marge had phoned him, so the check was ready when I scaled the heights of Bryan Tower. Dermott looked at the check on his desk, looked at me, and said, “Should I ask how you earned this, Rafferty?”