THE BASTARD BANNERMAN CHAPTER ONE I let the old Ford drift over the hill so I could see the sweep of the Bannerman estate nestling in the cove of the bay with the light of the full moon throwing shadows from the tall pines and making the columns of the mansion stand clear like a skeletal hand. The hedgerow inside the fieldstone wall that surrounded the place had outgrown it by six feet since I had seen it last and as I eased past the huge brick posts that had once supported a handmade wrought iron gate I could see what tune and negligence had done to it. The gates were still there, but propped open, the posts ripped loose from the brick. At no time did I have any intention of stopping by. Cutting off the main east-west highway onto 242 was an act of curiosity more than nostalgia, but when a guy lives the first twelve years of his life in a place before he gets the boot into the wild world outside, itÒs a natural thing to want to see if his old home had as many scars as he did. Through the break in the tree line I could see the lights on downstairs. I grinned to myself, braked the Ford, backed up and turned in the drive and followed the curve of it up to the house. What a damn fool I am, I thought. Do I shake hands or slap somebodyÒs tail for them? This was no prodigal son returning and if I expected a happy homecoming I was blowing smoke all the way. But what the hell, that was all twenty-three years ago, two wars ago, a lifetime ago and when curiosity gets the better of you, go to it. Like the old man used to say before he died though, just remember what it did to the cat. Then heÒd laugh because that was my name. C. C., for Cat Cay Bannerman. Now I knew the joke. Cat Cay was where I was conceived and born, only out of wedlock. The girl died an hour after I showed up and the old man brought me home with his name and a stigma the rest of the family couldnÒt live with. The bar sinister. The bastard Bannerman. To be raised with the bar dexter class in wealth and tradition, but always on the tail end out of sight so the blight on the family escutcheon wouldnÒt be seen by the more genteel folk. I parked behind the two other cars, walked up the broad flight of steps to the porch and pulled the bell cord. It had an electrical device now and chimed somewhere inside. When that happened the voices that seemed a little too loud suddenly stopped and when the door opened I looked at the tiny old lady that used to make me jelly sandwiches when I was locked in my room and tell me everything was going to be all right and I said, ÓHello, Annie.Ô She stiffened automatically, looked up at me over her glasses, annoyed. ÓYes?Ô Her voice was thin now, and quavered a little. I bent down and kissed her cheek. It was quick and she didnÒt have time to pull away, but her mouth opened in a gasp of indignation. Before she could speak I said, ÓItÒs been a long time, Annie. DonÒt you remember the one you called your pussy cat?Ô Her eyebrows went up slowly as memories returned. She reached out, touched my face, shaking her head in disbelief. ÓCat. My little Cat Cay.Ô I lifted her right off her feet, held her up and squeezed her a little. The two day old beard was rough against her cheek and she squealed with a little sob of pleasure until I put her down. ÓI donÒt believe it,Ô she told me. ÓSo many years. YouÒre so ... so big now. Come in, Cat, come in, come in.Ô ÓYou havenÒt changed, Annie. You still smell of apple pie and furniture polish.Ô She closed the door, took my arm with fragile fingers, stepped back and looked at me closely. ÓYes, itÒs you all right . . . the broken nose Rudy gave you, the scar where you fell out of the tree . . . your fatherÒs eyes.Ô But at the same time she was looking at the well-worn black suit and the battered porkpie hat and in her mind I was still the left over, the one who didnÒt fit or belong, who had always been a convenient whipping boy for Rudy and his brother Theodore, the family scapegoat who took the blame and punishment for everything two cousins did and had to cut out at twelve. ÓWhereÒs the clan?Ô I asked her. Her eyes darted toward the pair of oak doors that led to the library. ÓCat ... do you think you should . . .Ô ÓWhy not, old girl? No hard feelings on my part. What happened is over and IÒm not going to be around long enough to get any rumors started. Besides, thereÒs not one thing I want from this bunch of Bannermans. By myself I do okay and no squawks. IÒm only passing through.Ô She was going to say something else, stopped herself and pointed to the doors. ÓTheyÒre all ... inside there.Ô There was a peculiar edge to her voice, but she was still the family housekeeper and didnÒt intrude in the closed circle of affairs. I patted her shoulder, pushed down the two great brass handles and swung the doors open. For one second I had that cold feeling like I used to get when I was told to report and knew what was going to happen. Uncle Miles would be pacing the floor in his whipcord breeches, slapping his leg with the riding crop while he listened to Rudy and Teddy lie about who let the bay mare eat herself to death from the feed bin, or who fired the old cabin out back. IÒd know the crop was for me with long hours in the dark attic bedroom and a week of doing backbreaking man-chores to follow until I was allowed the company of the family again. I remembered the way old MacCauley hated to assign the jobs, but he had his orders from Miles and heÒd try to take the load off my back, knowing heÒd be fired if he was caught. If my old man had been alive he would have knocked his brotherÒs ass off for doing it. But pop had died. He went under a frozen lake to get Rudy who had fallen through, caught pneumonia and a week later was dead. But it wasnÒt the same now. Uncle Miles was a skinny, frightened old man who sat behind a desk with a tight face that was all bluster and fear and Rudy and Ted, a couple of pudgy boy-men with faces showing the signs of dissipation and easy living. Neither one of them had much hair left and their faces were pink and soft looking. Ted, who always was the lesser of the two, fidgeted with his hands at a corner of the desk while Rudy stood there pompously with his hands on his hips and his tongue licking his thick lips nervously. There was a third one I didnÒt know who was relaxed in a chair with his legs crossed, smoking, an angular guy with thick, black hair and a pointed widowÒs peak above a face that was strong and handsome. The other two I did know. One was Carl Matteau, the other Popeye Gage and they were Syndicate boys from Chicago and they both had amused, tolerant expressions on their faces. Every head in the room swivelled my way when I walked in but there wasnÒt a sign of recognition on any of them. Miles and his two sons threw a quick look at the pair of hoods, wondering if I were part of them, but when Carl Matteau shrugged they knew I wasnÒt and Uncle Miles came halfway out of his chair with his face flushed in anger at the intrusion. ÓJust what is the meaning of this!Ô he demanded. I grinned at him, slow and deliberately. ÓA social call, Uncle. I came to pay my respects to the family. Relax.Ô It was Rudy who recognized me first. Something happened to his breath. It seemed to stick in his throat. ÓCat he said. ÓCat Cay!Ô ÓHello, Punk.Ô I walked over to him, stood there looking down at his eyes, knowing what he saw scared him stiff. He started to hold out his hand and I slapped him across the mouth. Teddy never moved for a few moments, then skittered behind the desk. ÓAre ... are you crazy?Ô he managed to get out. ÓSure, kid.Ô I laughed and watched Miles let go the arms of the chair and sink down into the padded seat. He looked even smaller than before. All he could say was, ÓIt canÒt be. It canÒt be you.Ô But it was and he knew it. The one sitting behind me, the good looking one, came out of his chair very casually, strode over to the desk and stared at me with eyes as cold as my own. He was as big as I was, but only in height, but he had the kind of build you couldnÒt trust. A lot of those angular guys could be like whips. ÓDo you mind explaining who you are?Ô I pushed him a little. ÓYou first, buddy.Ô He rolled with the nudge. ÓVance Colby. I happen to be engaged to Anita Bannerman.Ô Anita! Damn, I had almost forgotten about her. The distant cousin who was ten to my twelve, fair headed and frail who used to follow me around like a puppy. She was another who had sneaked me sandwiches and milk when they had my back against the wall. Cute little kid. She had met me by the gate the night I ran away and kissed me goodbye and ran back to the house crying her eyes out. ÓWell, how about that,Ô I said. ÓThat doesnÒt explain you.Ô ÓIÒm a Bannerman, buddy. The bastard Bannerman. You should have heard of me. Max, my old man, and Miles here were brothers. I used to live here.Ô ÓSo.Ô That wa
s all he said. He nodded as if he knew the whole story and turned to look at Uncle Miles. The old man seemed to be in a stupor. For some reason the whole thing got funny. Everything was out of focus and there was a charge in the air that you could feel on your skin. I said, ÓWell, I didnÒt expect any fatted calf killed for me, but I sure didnÒt think the clan would be so far on their heels theyÒd entertain a couple of bums like these two here.Ô I turned around and looked at Matteau and Gage. It was Gage who started to move until Matteau tapped his arm. ÓEasy, boy,Ô he said to me. I walked over to him, gave him one stiff shot in the chops and when he folded I laid one on the back of his neck that piled him into the rug. When Gage reached for the gun I jammed the barrel of the .45 in his mouth and felt teeth snap and saw the blood spill down his chin and the wide eyes of a guy who had just made one hell of a big mistake. He hit the wall, came off it knowing what was going to happen and too late to stop it: I let him have the gunsight across his jaw that laid the flesh open and he went down on top of Matteau with a soft whimper and stayed there. All you could hear was the terrified silence. It was a noise in itself. I said, ÓDonÒt anybody ever call me boy,Ô and I looked at the three other Bannermans whomever knew any other name for me. She didnÒt call me boy though. From the doorway where she had seen the whole thing start and end she half whispered, ÓCat!Ô My love, my little love, only now she wasnÒt small and frail. Darkly blonde still, but luscious and beautiful with those same deep purple eyes and a mouth that had given me my first kiss. Her breasts accentuated the womanliness of her, dipping into a pert waist and swelling into thighs and calves that were the ultimate in sensuous beauty. ÓHello, Anita,Ô I said. Even the pair on the floor, the blood or the gun in my fist couldnÒt stop the headlong rush she made into my arms and hold back the tears. I laughed, grabbed her close a moment and held her back so I could look at her. ÓIÒll be damned,Ô I said, ÓHow youÒve changed.Ô Through eyes that were wet and streaking mascara she looked at me. ÓCat . . . where did you come from? You were supposed to be dead. Oh, Cat, all these years and you never wrote ... we never heard a thing. Why didnÒt . . .Ô ÓI never left anything here, kid.Ô I tilted her chin up with my hand. ÓExcept you. I wanted to take you along but I couldnÒt have made it then.Ô ÓAnita!Ô Vance Colby was snubbing his cigarette out in an ash tray. He was the only one who seemed calm enough to speak up. ÓAt ease, friend. WeÒre sort of kissinÒ cousins. Take it easy until weÒve said our hellos.Ô She seemed to. see the others then. Like them there was a tension that came back over her, and eyes that were happy, clouded, and her finger bit into my arm. ÓPlease . . . can we go outside . . . and talk?Ô I looked at Colby and felt a smile twist my mouth. I put the gun back and said, ÓMind?Ô ÓNot at all.Ô I pointed toward Gage and Matteau. ÓBetter sober up your friends.Ô
CHAPTER TWO The summer house had always been a place where we could find each other and we went there now. She sat in one of the big wicker chairs and I perched on the railing and said, ÓOkay, honey, spill it. WhatÒs going on here?Ô ÓCat. . . nothing. Really, I...Ô ÓSince when do a pair of hoods sit in the Bannerman mansion? Grandpop or my old man would have thrown them through the nearest window and there was a time when Miles wouldnÒt let anybody in the front door who wasnÒt listed in the social register. So what gives, honey?Ô ÓYou . . . you knew those two, didnÒt you?Ô ÓSure I did. TheyÒre Syndicate men they call Ñwatchers.Ò They come in while an operation is being set up with Syndicate money to make sure it gets spent right.Ô ÓHow did you know them?Ô ÓWhy?Ô ÓYou. . .had a gun.Ô ÓSo IÒm in the same business, thatÒs why, but donÒt worry about it. WhatÒs the score here?Ô ÓI canÒt tell you,Ô she said simply. ÓSwell, so IÒll find out myself.Ô Even in the darkness I could see her hands tighten into hard knots. ÓPlease donÒt.Ô ÓIÒm the curious type. Maybe I can stick something up RudyÒs tail. He did it to me often enough.Ô ÓTheyÒre . . . not like they used to be.Ô ÓNeither am I, chicken. Now, do you explain?Ô ÓNo.Ô I slid off the rail and stood in front of her. ÓSo tell me and IÒll blow,Ô I said. ÓI donÒt want anything from those creeps.Ô Anita shook her head slowly, not wanting to look at me. ÓIÒm afraid, Cat. They did . . . too much to you. Nobody can forget what they did. But please . . . donÒt make it worse.Ô ÓYou make it sound interesting.Ô I reached out, lifted her to her feet and put my arms around her. I tried to make it casual, a thing that cousins might do, but it didnÒt quite work that way. My fingers kneaded the firm structure of her back, my palms pressed her close and some crazy thing went through my head and down through my body and was happening to her too. She said something I couldnÒt hear because my face was buried in the fragrance of her hair, then my mouth was tasting her and feeling the wild response and fiery dart of her tongue and I had to shove her away with arms that wanted to shake. ÓCat ... I waited. I never believed what they said . . . about you being dead. The night you left I told you IÒd wait.Ô ÓWe were just kids, honey.Ô ÓYou said youÒd come back for me.Ô And I remembered. It was why I had turned off the road into the driveway. ÓIÒm too late, kid.Ô Her eyes, were misty and she leaned her face against my chest. ÓI know. It canÒt be changed.Ô She looked up at me. ÓTake me back, Cat... please?Ô I left her at the door without bothering to go in. The black Caddie that had been in front of my Ford was gone now, the Buick still there. I got in the car, turned the engine over and drove out the way I had come. Culver City was six miles east and I had nine days before I had to do the job in New York and get back to the coast. Outside of town I stopped at a second rate motel, put down nine bucks and signed the register. I said I didnÒt need a receipt, got the key, the guy didnÒt even bother to look at the name and never commented on it, so I drove down to my room. After a shower I lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling wondering just how badly IÒd like to plaster Rudy and Ted all over their palatial mansion. I laughed at the thought because now it was ridiculous. I could take them both with one hand. I would have settled for a swift kick in the tail or a belt in the puss, dumped old Miles in the cistern out back and called it square. Except that now a new note was added. The boys from Chicago were on the inside and the fun might be too much to miss out on. I got up at seven a.m., grabbed breakfast downtown and at eight-thirty when I knew IÒd get my party, made a call. Marty Sinclair came on the line with a gruff hello and I said, ÓCat Bannerman.Ô ÓYou in New York?Ô ÓNo, Culver City. IÒm going to stick around a while.Ô ÓYou and them crazy broads! When . . .Ô ÓCome on, Marty. I used to live here.Ô ÓSo why the call?Ô ÓI donÒt know . . . something cute here we might tie in with. Look, work it easy, but see if you have a line into the local situation.Ô ÓHell, man, Culver City is wide open. Gambling is legal, the horses are out of season but. . .Ô ÓCan you do it?Ô ÓSure. Take ten minutes.Ô I gave him the number of the phone booth. ÓCall me back in fifteen.Ô He was right on the dot. Fifteen minutes later I knew of a Sid LaMont, had his address and was on the way. Five sixty one River Street was a sleezy building on the end of a line of apartments with a painted sign advertising a popular beer facing the water. On the ground floor was a printing jobber, a top floor with smashed windows, which put Sidney LaMont right in the middle. The guy who answered the door was about thirty but looked fifty. He came up to my shoulders, peering at me with a ratty little face, hands fiddling with a dirty undershirt. These guys I knew how to handle without wasting time so I just pushed him back in the room and watched the sweat start forming on his forehead. They always try a little bull at first. He said, ÓLook, mister . . . donÒt you come bustinÒ in here and ...Ô ÓShut up.Ô I didnÒt have to say any more. When I pulled out the handkerchief and wiped my nose he saw the .45 in the hip holster, swallowed hard and backed into a chair. ÓMac . . . IÒm clean, see. I paid my freight. Ask Forbes, heÒll tell you. What kind of stuff is this? IÒm nickels and dimes. Last week I clear sixty bucks. I donÒt bother nobody. I...Ô ÓShut up.Ô I gave him the full .treatment, going around the room, just looking until I was satisfied, then pulled up a straight backed chair, turned it around and sat down facing him. His face was wringing wet. So was his unde
rshirt. ÓBannerman,Ô I said. ÓWhat do you know about them?Ô He seemed genuinely bewildered. ÓThem? Jeez, Mac, I ...Ô ÓQuick.Ô The side of his mouth twitched. ÓYou . . . you cops?Ô For a full five seconds I just stared at him until his eyes couldnÒt meet mine at all any more. ÓIÒm not from Culver City,Ô I told him. Between my face and where the gun was he couldnÒt keep his eyes still. He said, ÓSo theyÒre big wheels. Live west of here. Hell, I ...Ô I started to move my hands and he held up his for me to wait. ÓOkay, theyÒre real fancy stiffs. You think I meet them? The two kids are always travelling with some hot tomatoes from the clubs and they blow the dough like itÒs water. The old oneÒs a crap shooter and his brother likes the wheel. So what else do you want? They got the money, let Ñem spend it.Ô I sat without speaking another minute and let him sweat some more, then I got up and walked to the door. I turned around and said, ÓWhat do I look like?Ô He got the message. ÓMan, I never seen you in my life.Ô ÓRemember that,Ô I said. There were five major clubs in town all located on the bay side. None of them were open for business, but somebody was in each one and when I told them I was checking on customer credit they werenÒt a bit backward about obliging me. I mentioned the Bannermans and all I got was a fat okay. They were big spenders and had been for a long time. They paid their bills and could get credit any time they wanted. They werenÒt big winners, though. Like any habitual players against the house they wound up in the red, but at least they enjoyed the pleasure of laying it out. But I could still see the gates hanging off their hinges and picture the worn spots in the oriental rug in the library and it didnÒt make sense. There was just too much pride and tradition behind the Bannermans to let the old homestead run down. I never knew what the financial set up was. My old manÒs father had piled up the loot during the gold rush trade. He had made a find, exploited it as far as he could, then sold out to a company. He had split the pile down the middle between Miles and Max, but the old man wasnÒt one for investments when he could high tail it around the world chasing wine, women and song. Max had me and Miles nursed his dough. And thatÒs how it goes. The snag in the picture was the gaming tables because you can always spend it faster than you can make it and the signs were that the Bannermans werenÒt what they had been. I had gone through all the spots where you can usually pick up a word or two without coming out with a single thing at all. At a quarter to four I tried the public library on State Street, found all the recent issues of the Culver Sentinel and started scanning through them. In two weeks there were five mentions of the Banner-mans, all in connection with some civic project or social function, but not a squib about them in the traffic violation column. Three weeks back the headlines were having a ball because there were four rape cases, a hit and run that killed two prominent local citizens, a murder in the parking lot of the Cherokee Club and a raid by the Treasury Department men on a narcotics setup in town. The rapes and the narcotics angle were solved, three teen-age kids were being held for the hit and run and the parking lot murder was still up in the air. The dead man there was the lot attendant who had been fooling around with a friendÒs wife and the husband was being sought after. He was an ex con who had done time for second degree murder and had blown town the night of the killing. Past that the Bannermans came up again, but only in the society columns. There was one half page of notes and pictures devoted to the engagement of one Anita Bannerman to Vance Colby, a prominent realtor who had settled in Culver City some year and a half before. When the library closed I went up the hill to Placer Street where the Culver Sentinel still turned out the only paper in town and walked in the bar in the next block, sat down and ordered a beer. A few minutes after five-thirty the place started filling up with thirsty types and it wasnÒt hard to pick out the newshawks in the crowd. But one was a guy I remembered well. He was a little weatherbeaten guy who had lost one ear when he and the old man had sailed the Turia II with a load of Canadian booze on board and the Coast Guard hard behind shooting with everything they had. The old man lost the boat and Hank Feathers had lost an ear and I had heard them laugh over the story many a time. I waited until Feathers squeezed into what seemed to be a customary spot and ordered a drink, then I moved up behind him. I said, ÓIf it isnÒt Vincent Van Gogh himself.Ô He put the drink down slowly, craned around and looked at me with the two meanest eyes I ever saw. Old as he was, there was a peculiar stance about him that said he was ready to travel no matter who it was. I grinned at him and the slitted eyes lost some of their meanness. ÓThatÒs what you get for sticking your head out a porthole,Ô I said. ÓDamn you, kid, only one man ever knew about that.Ô ÓAnd he liked to call you Van Gogh too didnÒt he?Ô ÓOkay, son, who are you?Ô ÓThe bastard Bannerman. The old man used to tell you lies about my mother.Ô ÓCat Cay! IÒll be hanged.Ô His face went into a broad, wrinkled smile and he held out his hand. ÓYep, you got his eyes all right. And son, they werenÒt lies about your mother. I saw her. She was something.Ô He grabbed my arm and pulled me to the bar. ÓCome on, drink up. Damn if we havenÒt got something to talk about. What the hell you doing here? I heard you were dead.Ô ÓPassing through, thatÒs all.Ô ÓSee the family?Ô ÓBriefly.Ô ÓAll slobs. Idle rich and they stink. The girlÒs okay, but the boys and the old man the world can do without. They got too many people in their pockets.Ô ÓCome on, Hank, who could they control?Ô He took a pull of the drink and set the glass down. ÓItÒs not control exactly, itÒs just that theyÒve been here long enough to know where the bodies are buried and can play the angles. The old man wants a bit in the paper ... he gets a bit in the paper. He wants opening night tickets to the Civic Theatre, he gets them. He wants his name out of the paper, he gets that.Ô ÓWhen does he want to be ignored?Ô ÓHa. Like when Theodore wrapped up two cars in a drunken driving spree and later when his old man had a statutory rape thing squashed for him and like when they interrogated everybody at the Cherokee Club after the attendant was killed. But not Rudy. He went home and no mention of him when everybody was listed in black and white. The power of social position, my boy, especially when wives try to climb the white ladder to the blue book and politicians need an in through an exclusive club in the state capital.Ô He stopped and laughed. ÓBut how about you? Where the hell have you been?Ô I shrugged it off. ÓRan away at twelve, tied in with a family of migrant bean pickers until they all died of the flu, latched on to a rancher in Texas who made sure I went to school, joined the Army . . . hell, IÒve been through the mill.Ô ÓYou look it, son, you sure do.Ô He cocked his head then, gave me a kind of sidewise look, his eyes studying my face intently and he said, ÓDamn if you donÒt look familiar. You do anything important?Ô ÓI stayed alive.Ô ÓWell, you look familiar.Ô ÓI look like the old man, Hank.Ô He nodded slowly and finished his beer. ÓYeah, I guess thatÒs it, all right. Come on, have another beer.Ô ÓNo thanks, I have to shove off. Look, IÒll see you before I go.Ô ÓYou better boy, or IÒll come after you. Where you staying?Ô I told him the name of the motel, threw some change on the bar, shook hands and walked out to the Ford. Things were looking up. The Bannermans werenÒt as pure as driven snow after all.
Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys Page 3