She looked him over, and then said quietly, “My lawyer used to be a law partner of Supervisor Gilliam. You can figure out whether that’s influence. It sure doesn’t hurt. And my father plays golf with the mayor once in a while. That doesn’t hurt, either. I’m telling you because you brought it up. But, in the meantime, I volunteered to help you identify him.” She pointed to the pictures, still in my hand.
“Listen, Miss Franks,” Markham said, his face flushed. “You’ve got a bunch of hippies out there, just—just lying around, practically making love to each other. And you’ve got a place that looks pretty dirty to me, to be serving food. And, for all I know, you’re violating the fire codes, with all this fabric draped around.”
She took a moment, then said deliberately, “The love part, I’d say, is a matter of interpretation. You’ve got yours. I’ve got mine. The law has its own. As for the dirt, it’s not as dirty as it looks. I told you I’ve spent a lot of time trying to decide what’s motivating these kids. I won’t go into it all now, but lack of cleanliness—dirt—is a positive affirmation to them. It’s a manifestation of their rebellion. Most of them will end up badgering their kids to wash behind their ears, just like the rest of us. But, for now, they dig dirt, if you’ll pardon the play on words. So it looks a little dirty out there—repeat—looks. Now—” She drew a deep breath. “Now, as far as the, ah, decor is concerned, the fire marshal comes regularly. Everything is fireproofed, and I’ve got the certificates to prove it. So—”
A girl came through the velvet curtains. She was short and dumpy; she wore a tattered Beethoven sweatshirt and tight blue jeans, shredded and patched. She was barefooted. Her dark, Slavic-looking face was set and suspicious. Her cheekbones were high; her lips were thick.
I glanced at Miss Franks, expecting her to dismiss the dumpy girl. Instead, faintly sighing, Miss Franks said shortly, “These men are from the police. They’re tracking down that picture in the paper this morning. I told them I thought it was Don Robertson—that quiet little guy who followed Frank Walters around sometimes.” Turning to us she said shortly, “This is Maxine Summers.”
Maxine Summers sat in a sidechair, watching us intently. Her eyes, I saw, were very dark, almost black. She looked intelligent, aggressive and unpleasant.
“Do you work here, Miss Summers?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“She’s my assistant,” Cecile Franks interposed.
“Can you help us find Frank Walters, Miss Franks?” I asked.
“I’ll get someone to help you. But before I do, I want it very clearly understood that I don’t have anything to do with Walters. We used to do a little business, but not any more. I’ve got a good reason for saying that.”
“What’s the reason?” I asked.
“The reason is that Walters recently acquired a pretty good corner on the local LSD and STP concession, according to gossip. Just a couple of days ago two detectives from your own Narcotics Squad had Walters down to City Hall, again according to the gossip, And, in addition—” She paused before saying, “In addition, your colleagues even questioned me, concerning Walters.”
“Why’d they question you?” Markham asked.
“They questioned me,” she said, still ignoring Markham, “because they’re trying to find out who’s bankrolling Walters, alias Snow Boy.”
“Bankrolling his LSD operations, you mean?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Maybe,” Markham said, “we should take over with you where the Narco Squad left off.”
“If you want to do that,” she said evenly, “you’d better say so now. I happen to know my lawyer’s leaving town for a few days, and I wouldn’t want to take any kind of action without him.”
“What do you mean, ‘take any kind of—’”
“Come on,” I cut in, pointing to the door. “Let’s find Walters.” I waited for them to go out, Markham first. Maxine Summers was walking close beside me, and as I glanced at her I was surprised to feel a sense of physical revulsion. It had been a long time since I’d felt revulsion for anyone. It’s not one of the luxuries a cop can afford.
Then I realised that she wanted to talk to me, without the others hearing. I dropped back several feet from the service counter. She was looking at me with a shrewd, hostile suspicion as she said. “How’d you happen to come here?”
Watching her, I said, “Miss Franks called us.”
“She asked you to come? Here?”
I nodded.
Her dark, intense little eyes narrowed as she looked directly into mine. Something in her manner seemed almost threatening. Then, suddenly, she turned away, disappearing behind the velvet curtain.
Miss Franks and the boy called Bronco were conferring. I saw Bronco point with a furtive, abbreviated gesture to the back of the huge room. Cecile Franks nodded, then turned to us. “Do you see that older man back there?” She asked.
He sat half turned away from us—a stocky, swarthy man in his middle forties, wearing his hair almost shoulder length. His beard was streaked with grey, his sweatshirt ragged and wrinkled, his blue jeans stained and ripped. As I looked at him, I felt a kind of wry, reluctant recognition. Here was someone my own age. Twenty years ago they’d have called him a Bohemian. Ten years ago they’d have labelled him a beatnik. Now, surrounded by youngsters in their twenties, he seemed almost too old for classification. I sighed.
“That’s Larry Vannuchi,” she was saying. “He can tell you where to find Frank Walters. Vannuchi’s the local guru.”
“The what?” Markham asked.
“The sage, or at least the most articulate exponent of saying everything and nothing simultaneously. But if you’re curious about anything in Haight Ashbury, Vannuchi’s the one to ask. He’ll tell you where to find Frank Walters.”
I thanked her, made sure she’d be available for questioning during the next few days, and then followed Markham.
“Are you Larry Vannuchi?” Markham asked.
The stocky man smiled—a wide, knowing smile. His lips were full and red deep within his tangled beard. Vannuchi weighed about two hundred, and probably stood five foot nine. His face was coarsely formed, like a longshoreman’s, but his voice was thin and reedy.
“Are you from the local constabulary?”
“Yes,” I answered. “We’re trying to locate someone. We understand you can help us.”
His dark eyes were briefly, shrewdly appraising. “Who’re you trying to find?”
I moved my head towards the front door. “Let’s just step outside a minute.”
He gave me another quick, shrewd glance, then turned to his audience. “If I don’t return by nightfall, children, compose me an elegy on the sitar. Then come and play it beneath the jailhouse window by moonlight. Beat the drum slowly and blow the lute lowly—especially if you can’t find a sitar.” His manner had become artificially loud and gay, like an actor, speaking his lines. Now he got briskly to his feet, walking ahead of us through the door. His gait was compact and rolling, as if he might have once gone to sea.
On the sidewalk outside Vannuchi looked from me to Markham, twice. His broad, playfully impudent grin had changed to a kind of thoughtful, mischievous, twisting of his full red lips. “I bet I can tell you,” he said suddenly, “who you’re going to ask me about.”
“Who?” Markham asked, not amused.
“You’re going to ask me about the murdered kid in the paper this morning.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Who is he, Vannuchi?”
“From the picture,” came the prompt answer, “I’d say it was Donny Robertson. One of the casualties of Lotus-land-by-the-Bay. By the way,” he added smoothly, “what’s your name? I don’t think you told me.”
To myself, I smiled. He was one of the cool ones.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Hastings,” I answered, playing it straight. “This is Inspector Markham.”
Genial and relaxed, Vannuchi nodded first to me, then to Markham. My partner snorted.
&n
bsp; “Then it actually was Robertson,” Vannuchi was saying. “I wondered.”
“We’re not sure yet; we’re still checking. As a matter of fact, really, we’re looking for a man named Frank Walters. We understand he’s, ah, an associate of Robertson’s.”
“So I’ve heard,” came the cautious reply.
“We also understand,” Markham said, “that you can tell us where to locate Walters. Right?”
Vannuchi elaborately shrugged. “I suppose I could. I know most of the characters around here.”
“Do you live in Haight Ashbury?” I asked.
“Yes.” He pointed upward, above the Crushed Chrysanthemum. “Cecile Franks is my landlady. You see, I’ve already figured out that you’ve met her.”
“She told us,” Markham said, “that there’s lots goes on up there. Does that include you?”
“In the first place, Inspector, I’d be willing to bet that she didn’t admit any such thing. And, secondly, the phrase ‘a lot goes on’ means different things to different people.” He paused thoughtfully, surveying Markham. “God, I’d hate to be a cop. You start out first thing in the morning feeling for a corpse’s pulse. You spend the next few hours bullying people into thinking they’re even worse than they are, hoping they’ll break down and confess. So, if you’re lucky, you end up the day turning the key on someone who’s too stupid or drunk or maybe too beat up to know what he’s admitting.” Again he shook his head, still coolly looking Markham over. “It must curdle the soul. It really must.”
I saw Markham’s colour rising.
“All right, Vannuchi,” he said. “That’s our job description. Now how about yours?” He jerked open the cruiser’s back-seat door. “Maybe we better get inside and talk about you for a while. Like how much money you’ve got, for instance. You’re looking more like a vag to me by the minute.”
He didn’t even blink. “If you want me in the back seat, Inspector, you’re going to have to stuff me in.” He shifted his weight to face Markham squarely.
I sighed. “All right, Vannuchi. You’ve made your point; you’re a tough guy. Now just show us where we can find Frank Walters. Then you’re excused.”
He smiled, pivoted, and promptly got into the car. “Certainly, Sergeant. We can be there in two minutes. Drive on, Inspector Markham. I’ll direct you.” He slammed the door. I got into the front seat. Markham jerked the car away from the kerb.
“Which way, Vannuchi?” I asked, turning back to face him.
“Four blocks down, then turn to the left.”
“What do you do for a living, Vannuchi?” I asked. “Just out of curiosity.”
“Since it’s just out of curiosity, I’ll be happy to admit that I do nothing. Absolutely nothing. I am in the approximate position of Socrates, in Athens. The community provides for me, so that I may enlighten them.”
“A guru.”
“Precisely.”
“What did you do before you became a guru?”
The humour faded from his eyes. “Before I was a guru, I was a success, Sergeant. I am, in fact, a graduate of the Proctor Institute of Design, and I was considered one of the finest, most imaginative, most successful industrial designers on the West Coast. But my clients were legion; my employees were happy and well paid. At age thirty-seven, I had a thriving business, a house in town and a thirty-thousand-dollar hideaway at Bolinas Beach. My wife was blonde, provocative, and as quick with a quip as she was with a swizzle stick. My sons were growing up straight and strong. However, unhappily, my wife fell in love with another man. I, therefore, fell in love with another woman. I also started to drink. I got ulcers. My wife got a divorce. My business first faltered, then failed altogether. Creditors fell upon my assets, fighting it out with my wife’s lawyers. My ulcers began bleeding, but I kept on drinking. Finally I became an embarrassment to myself, as well as to others. That was about three years ago. Since then I—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, pointing to a callbox on the next corner. “I’d better call in,” I said to Markham.
He pulled over to the kerb. I checked in with Communications, and was instructed to contact Captain Kreiger.
“Hello, Frank?”
“Yessir.”
“Anything doing?”
When I’d finished Kreiger said, “I’ve got something for you, supplementing what you’ve already got. First, it wasn’t ten minutes after you left that Hickman, from Narco, knocked on my door to ask whether we’re still trying to identify the DOA. It turns out they already had a file on Robertson, or at least a report. They—”
“You mean to say that—?”
“The report was actually appended to their file on Walters,” he went on, “so there wasn’t any goof. Robertson hadn’t ever been booked. And, besides, Hickman has been short handed too, because of the flu. It’s just one of those things. Anyhow, the point is that this Don Robertson was suspected of peddling LSD for Frank Walters. But, other than just the brief report, Narco doesn’t have any background on Robertson.”
“What about Walters? Anything on him?”
“Everything but evidence, apparently. He’s smart. Plus there’s so much drug peddling in the Haight Ashbury that the Narco Squad is running around in circles. They’re understaffed even to handle heroin effectively, let alone LSD and pot. However, there’s some evidence that organised crime is trying to get control of LSD and pot. They’ve tried in New York, and seem to be trying here. Do you know much about that Karen Forest murder, six weeks ago?”
“Nothing except the departmental briefings.”
“Well, she seems to have been tied in with Walters, and since Walters was tied in with Robertson, and since Robertson’s death was probably connected with the fact that he was pushing LSD, I’d better give you the run down.
“Karen Forest came from society, as you probably remember. Or at least she came from the lower fringes of society. She was forty-two, divorced, and had a son going to Harvard, if I recall correctly. Apparently she started hanging around Haight Ashbury out of curiosity, or something. But then she started experimenting with drugs, and then she started sleeping around, according to the file. She thought she was recapturing her lost youth, I guess. Anyhow, she finally bought a house in Haight Ashbury, even though she kept her apartment in Pacific Heights. But, more and more, she was getting hooked on hippiedom, or whatever they call it. Then, six weeks ago, she was found dead.”
“She was shot, wasn’t she?”
“Right.”
“How does Frank Walters fit in?”
“Apparently Walters was one of the men she was playing around with. We uncovered two or three men, at least, but we spent the most time questioning Walters. For one thing, there’s no question that he’s involved in the drug trade. And for another, he’s a Negro. So—”
“He’s a Negro?”
“Yes. And I have to admit he’s a pretty handsome specimen too. It’s easy to understand how any woman would be very attracted to him.”
“Do you think Walters killed her?”
“I don’t know. He couldn’t account for his movements during the time she was killed. But, otherwise, he told a pretty consistent story. Friedman handled the investigation. You can get the details from him.”
“What about the gun?”
“The bullet passed through the body and splattered against the wall. It just happened to hit a nail, so it was a total loss. Walters, it turned out, had a gun. A .38. But he’s had it for years—long before he got into the LSD business. So there wasn’t much we could do about tying in the gun.”
“What’d Walters say about the murder?”
“Well, the murder occurred sometime between nine P.M. and eleven P.M. But Walters claims he was in a movie during that time. We couldn’t get a corroborating witness, but then we couldn’t place him anywhere else—at the murder scene, for instance. Or even in Haight Ashbury. So we finally had to give up on him.”
“How’s organised crime come into it?”
“Well, th
at was mostly Walters’ idea. You see, we had a tip that Karen Forest had supplied Walters with money to make at least one marijuana buy in Mexico. So we put it to Walters that he’d had a falling out with Karen Forest, either for romantic or financial reasons. He said that, assuming he and Karen had some business dealings, then the Outfit might have murdered her—both to put pressure on him and also to cut off his funds.”
“Makes sense.”
“I suppose so. There’s a rumour that Karen Forest had more than ten thousand dollars in cash in the house when she was murdered. So the Outfit could’ve combined profit with pleasure, so to speak.”
“The motive could’ve been robbery, though, pure and simple.”
“Yes, that’s true. Except that Friedman doesn’t think it was an ordinary breaking and entering. Mrs. Forest probably let the murderer into the house, for one thing. Also, the murderer knew exactly where to look for the money.”
“And you think Robertson could’ve been murdered for the same reason as Karen Forest—to put pressure on Walters?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, then, I guess I’d better have a talk with Walters, the sooner the better. Anything else?”
“No. But why don’t you and Markham come in after you’ve talked with Walters? Bring Walters with you, if you think there’s anything worth sweating him about. In the meantime, Hickman’ll check on Frankie Frichetti, who’s apparently come out from the East to look things over for the Outfit. And I’ll ask Friedman whether he’s got any rumbles on the Karen Forest murder. So we might have something by this afternoon. Have you got anything on Robertson’s movements prior to the crime?”
“No, nothing.”
“Well, maybe Walters’ll know where Robertson comes from. That’s the goddam problem with these hippies—no one knows where they come from. So you’d better work on that angle: his known associates and his recent movements. I’ll see what I can do about tips from the street.”
SIX
MARKHAM PUNCHED IMPATIENTLY AT the doorbell button, then banged twice on the door.
“He’s in there, I bet.” He pointed to the newspaper lying still folded on the worn hallway carpeting.
The Lonely Hunter (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 5