A Body for McHugh

by Jay Flynn

  Alvarado Street was the heart of the Monterey business district. At the lower end were numerous small bars which featured soft lights and hard women. The Barrel was one.

  The Barrel had its front entrance on Alvarado, but, like most of its competitors, had a smaller, unlighted one on Calle Principal, the next street up the hill. These back doors got the most action. McHugh slowed his steps until he found the right one, then turned into a narrow alleyway. He waited a moment, listening, then eased the door open enough for a look inside. He tugged his hat low on his forehead and stepped in. From here he could see the big man behind the bar.

  Big Bill Palme had not changed. He had had a bottle in his hand in the early months of 1945, when McHugh had last seen him behind the German lines in France, and he had one now. He was a giant of a man, with a neck that strained at his size eighteen collar and a round face that had a completely misleading expression of childlike innocence.

  McHugh’s eyes catalogued the handful of customers as he walked the length of the bar to a vacant stool on the end. There were three soldiers in uniform, and a few men in rough work clothes, a cab driver reading a tabloid in the dim light of a back booth. A woman with brass-blonde hair bulged her Bermuda shorts as she bent over the juke box, which was playing something that seemed to be mostly bongo drums.

  The barman came down, lighting a cigarette as he walked. The duckboards sagged under his two hundred and fifty pounds. He tossed his lighter and cigarettes on the bar.

  “Hi. Beer?”

  “In France, all villages lead to a wine cellar.” McHugh spoke softly in French; now he waited.

  The bartender stiffened, his mind flashing back through the years. “How the hell would you...well I’ll be damned! The Abbé!”

  Right, o thirsty one,” McHugh admitted, reaching for a handshake that was rock hard. “For old times, Bill. Two cognacs.”

  McHugh slipped a wafer-thin medallion from his wallet while the snifters were filled. He found himself mildly surprised that Big Bill Palme had changed so little. He must be fifty now; he still looked twenty-five. He had looked no younger on that day in France when he waded the stream that separated Patton’s tankers from the German lines, striding unconcernedly down the single street of the village, a Thompson gun in the crook of his arm. He had walked alone, his eyes on the only two structures of consequence in the village—the chateau and the small monastery on the outskirts.

  The main German force had withdrawn to the line of hills some miles east of town, leaving only a small observation party. McHugh—who had lied about his age to get into the service—and his radio operator had operated for weeks from the monastery. In clerical garb, he had walked among the Germans and bridged the gap between the advancing American army and the French underground net He had watched what happened with some misgivings; the attack was not coming for three days, until there would be fuel for the tanks and half-tracks.

  A German officer had come from the chateau and froze as the dripping giant shouted at him. His hands had gone up, and he had walked slowly to a meeting in the soft French sunlight.

  Unable to believe Palme was alone, he had surrendered his tiny force on the spot Palme had herded the Germans into a subcellar of the chateau and locked them in.

  Some minutes later, a look of disgust on his face, he had walked past a handful of amazed visitors to the monastery and kicked on the heavy door.

  McHugh had waved the abbot back and swung the big portal open.

  “Abbé, those krautheads claim all the wine in the village is here,” Palme said in halting French.

  “Right, soldier,” McHugh said in English. “And just what the hell are you doing?”

  The big man had stared. “Say...what—”

  “O.S.S. What’s up? We weren’t supposed to take the village yet.”

  “Take it hell. I’d heard they all pulled out and it looked like there might be some booze left behind. Thought I’d have a look. I damn near crapped when that heinie popped out.”

  McHugh had thought it was a joke until he took a good look at the giant’s eyes. Then he had led him to the wine cellar. He’d used the radio, and in an hour a rifle company had taken over the village without a shot.

  Big Bill Palme had taken over the wine department.

  “On me, ol’ soldier,” Palme said now, pushing the money away. “Last time I saw you you were still a baby.”

  McHugh’s finger tapped the medallion. “Recognize this?”

  “Sure.” Palme did not change expression. Two years before, he had publicly retired as a major with thirty years of service. He was still in the Army, still on active duty, now in Intelligence. He raised his glass in a toast. “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know. A man named Girolamo could be in it. He has a boat. The Rosa.”

  “Gino. Bad news.” Palme went down the bar as a soldier rapped an empty beer bottle for attention. When he came back he said, “You go to see him, don’t go alone.

  “Afraid I’ll have to. What do you know about him?”

  Palme rubbed his chin. “He’s a Dago. Middle fifties, but still pretty rough in a brawl. He’s got this fishing boat, works from the bottom of Mexico up off Alaska. Got a crew of four, usually. His relatives, guys with tight lips and hard eyes. Cops got quite a package on him. Patrol boats keep stopping the Rosa but whatever he brings in, he brings in clean. Can’t catch the bastard.”

  “Would he bring a man in?”

  “He’d bring a hippo in if it had the price.”

  “Mafia?”

  “Probably. If he’s not one of the brothers, he’d hire out.”

  “Would the Rosa be in port now?”

  “Hold on.” Palme used the phone. “Coast Guard says yes. In for the past nine days. Tied up to a buoy off the long wharf. She’s a converted purser, painted white with blue trim. Gino keeps her up nice.”

  Nine days, McHugh thought. Time enough for a foreigner to square himself away and make some contacts. He described the man killed at The Door.

  “He never came in here. Anyway, not while I was working. From what you say he was wearing, I’d guess he’d hit the better spots. More likely around Carmel. If he was foreign and had an accent, nobody over there would notice it. Monterey people might take note.”

  “Uh-huh. Now there’s a girl. Her name could be Cecille Marie Harnois, and she might be from Carmel.” He described her.

  “Beats me, and I’d remember a cookie like that.”

  “Ask around. Where would I find Girolamo?”

  “You sure you want to?”

  “If I can’t find the girl first.”

  “If I were you, I’d put my time in on her, but Gino should be hanging around the Busy Bee. It’s a card room on Del Monte, in Seaside. I think he owns the dive. A hairy place, friend.”

  “It would be. Where can I get a car?”

  “Use mine. The Stude coupe on the back street.”

  CHAPTER 6

  THE CAB WAS SMALL and inconspicuous, its finish dulled by the salt air. McHugh used a roundabout route, satisfying himself that no headlights were following. He parked at the curb in front of the Busy Bee, studying the building.

  It was a rectangular stucco box with a garish neon sign. It fit the neighborhood of cheap stores, tacky bars and liquor stores that splotched the rambling city. Seaside was an Army town, cuddling its shacks and pastelled new housing developments to the sandy bosom of Fort Ord.

  McHugh checked his automatic and went into the Busy Bee. There was a bar, flanked by a few tables, on the left. The right-hand half of the big room was shielded by a shoulder-high partition. Behind the partition, pools of light spread over green-topped tables. Men ringed the tables, silently watching the slithering cards in the hands of the house dealer. The men spoke seldom, and in near-whispers. McHugh eyed the dozen or so men at the bar before finding an isolated place for himself.

  The barkeep, a chunky, blondish man with shirtsleeves rolled over heavy biceps, came up and made flicking motions
at the wood. His pale blue eyes took in McHugh’s city clothes, lingered on the eyes that were hard now, the nose that had been broken and had set a little off center.

  “Girolamo,” McHugh said.

  “Oh?” The barkeep sucked his cheeks in through the spaces left by missing teeth.

  “Yeah. I was told to find him here.”

  “Cop?”

  “No.”

  “Name?”

  “None of your goddam business. Just tell him.”

  “You better be friendly.” The barman went away. He stopped down the bar, leaned over and spoke to one of the men there.

  The man left his stool and came up to McHugh, carrying a beer. He leaned against the bar and studied McHugh for a full minute. He wore a windbreaker, a blue workshirt, dungarees. His eyes and hair were black, and he needed a shave.

  “Gino’s playing. He don’t want to stop, fella.” He spoke with an Italian accent.

  “This is about three dead men in San Francisco,” McHugh said in Italian. “And a certain package. You better tell him.”

  Black eyes narrowed, but the lined, swarthy face showed nothing. The man shrugged and went away. Several minutes passed before the man came through the partition from the card section. Two others were with him, men alike in their wariness, their clothes, their faces. One settled at the bar six stools to McHugh’s right; another went beyond him and leaned against the card-room wall. Their hands were in their pockets.

  The third man, older, rounder-faced, moved up to McHugh.

  “What you want, mister? I’m a busy man.”

  “We can speak your language. I understand the tongue of Sicily,” McHugh said. “My name is McHugh, I run a bar in San Francisco. A man was killed there. I don’t like it.”

  “Hey, Tex—bring me a tequila,” Girolamo called to the bartender. He waited until the colorless liquid was on the bar, a wedge of lime and shaker of salt beside it. He wet the back of his left hand, poured salt on it, tossed the shot of tequila off, licked at the salt and popped the lime into his mouth. “So why you come to me? I don’ know you an’ I don’ know about your joint or what happens there. An’ I don’ want to know, mister.

  “You brought the man into the country on the Rosa, Girolamo. I don’t know who he was. I don’t really care, except a couple of hoods put a knife into him because of a package. Three hoods. One named Leoni, another Bomarito. The third I don’t know.”

  “So why ask me? Ask these two hoods.”

  “They’re dead. You know it. It was in the papers. Even if it wasn’t, you’d have known.”

  Girolamo took a short, twisted Italian cigar from a pocket and lit it. “I know nothing. If I did, I would tell you nothing. Go ask your dead men.”

  “Leoni and Bomarito talked a little before they died. A little, but perhaps enough, Don Girolamo...”

  “Yes?” The eyes were intense.

  “I killed them. I think you know this. There was a third man who got away.”

  Girolamo turned slowly, after watching his reflection in the clouded mirror. “Mister, you’re a fool. You come round like this, you could get hurt. Maybe worse. Now you go away.”

  “You don’t want the package.” McHugh shook his head. “Suit yourself, you dumb dago.”

  Girolamo’s right hand dipped toward his pocket. McHugh caught it through the folds of cloth and exerted pressure.

  “Freeze. Freeze, old man, or I’ll kill you. I’ll do it right here, and it will happen before your pals can help you. And I’ll live to crap on your grave.”

  Girolamo was not a man without experience. He listened, and he watched McHugh’s eyes. He was not a coward; neither was he a fool. His hand came out slowly and rested on the edge of the bar.

  “So what do you want?”

  McHugh let his breath out slowly. “I want a piece of your deal. It’ll be worth it. I think I can get the package. I want to know who was the man you brought up from Mexico, why he had to come.”

  “I know nothing of this man, I know nothing of this package you talk about, mister. I got no damn deal to make. An’ if you run a joint, why you messing into something like this? You tell me that.”

  “I run a bar like you run a fishing boat, Gino.” McHugh got a cigar going. “I know a lot of people who might not turn down a deal.”

  He started to turn away. Girolamo caught his arm and drew him back.

  “Wait. Maybe we can do business.”

  “That’s better. Start with telling me about the man you brought in, and the package.”

  “I don’t know nothing about them. All I know is somebody trying to stick it to me, an I don’ like it. Every time I turn around, I got cops on me. Even at sea—the goddam Coast Guard boards me. I want to know who it is does this.”

  “You’ve got connections. How do I know about your enemies? McHugh exhaled cigar smoke. “You’ve offered nothing.”

  “You find out who’s doing it. Let me know. I’ll see you get what you want to know from them.”

  McHugh’s lips peeled back in a sneer. “I know how to make men talk. I don’t need you, old man, but you remember that if you see me again.”

  The Sicilian’s face darkened in anger. McHugh’s hand slid to the butt of his gun.

  “Get your men, Girolamo. Go back to your game. Don’t try to follow me when I leave, unless you want to be hurt. This I mean.”

  Girolamo did not look at the gun again. He shrugged, muttered a curse in Italian and made a signal. The two men who flanked them left the bar and went into the card room. Girolamo followed.

  McHugh got into the Studebaker and drove away.

  It was impossible to tell if he was being followed. There were too many other cars using the four-lane road into Monterey. In any case, it did not matter yet, because Gino Girolamo would not make a move until he knew what the consequences would be.

  To guess at that, he would have to know more about McHugh. Now he would be on the phone, calling the San Francisco numbers. The brothers in the city would ask around, and what they would learn would tell Girolamo nothing.

  He would know that McHugh ran a bar and that from time to time he dropped out of sight. Sometimes for a few days, sometimes for months. On occasion he was brought to the Hall of Justice and questioned by the detectives. He told them nothing, and he was always turned loose. He had money, more money than a man who lives off a honkey-tonk should have.

  Not much, but more than enough to whet the interest of Gino Girolamo.

  Unnecessary, really, because Girolamo was obliged to hurt McHugh. McHugh had sought him out, had treated him with contempt, had smilingly offered to kill him and to crap on his grave.

  A Sicilian who would listen to such words without making the blood run from the eyes and ears of the man who spoke them was a man without manhood; he was dead with his own people.

  McHugh found a parking space near the Barrel. The bar was nearly deserted. He gave Bill Palme the keys to the coupe and ordered a cognac. He sat with his back to the wall, remembering the look in Gino Girolamo’s eyes and the knife in the chest of the man in San Francisco.

  “Do any good?” Palme poured the liquor.

  “I spoke to the man. I expect we’ll tangle sometime.”

  Palme took a card from his wallet and wrote on it. “Here. You get your tail in the gate, call this number. If I’m not there, whoever answers will know what to do. Just say it’s the Abbé.”

  “Good enough.” McHugh memorized the number and put the card in his pocket.

  “You’re being looked for. The beat cop was in. About ten minutes ago.”

  “How hard?” McHugh was mildly annoyed. He had hoped to be able to climb back into his room undetected. Now Hudson knew he was on the loose. The police of half a dozen cities would be looking, probably with orders not to approach him, just to radio and keep him in sight if possible.

  “I’d walk on the dark side of the street. Otherwise you might start a parade.” Palme poured himself a shot and drank it. He leaned across the bar
and said in a low tone, “I might have a lead on that girl. Try El Fumador. It’s a beer bar on Dolores in Carmel. The night man seems to think she might be the gal they call Cece.”

  “So I need wheels again.”

  He drove slowly through the pine forest, with the headlights picking out small houses tucked away in dense foliage. Carmel was a town with few parking meters, street lights, neon signs or sidewalks in the residential district. It was a town where a newsstand sold more Wall Street Journals than San Francisco Chronicles, even on days when the Giants were doing well. It had more Rolls-Royce automobiles per capita than any place in the United States; it had artists who subsisted for days on boiled rice, not because they liked rice but because they hadn’t moved a painting for a month and that one went for thirty-five dollars. With frame. He turned down the hill on Ocean Avenue and found Dolores.

  El Fumador was in the middle of the block, a narrow place with pocketbooks and magazines and smoking stuff up front and a beer bar with a small pizza oven in the back. Most of the customers looked like college kids. They wore jeans and shaggy sweaters and drank beer in big pitchers. A thin-faced boy fingered a soft flamenco tune on a guitar, not seeming to notice the clatter of a dice game going on beside him at the bar. There were two girls, their hair in pony tails, their legs in walking shorts. They sat at a round table with a few of the college types.

  McHugh drew only casual glances as he found an isolated stool. The husky kid behind the bar was listening to a story. He raised his head and pointed to the nearest beer tap. McHugh nodded.

  When the beer was brought, McHugh put a dollar on the bar. “Cece been in tonight?”

  The boy’s eyes studied his face, lingering on his graying temples. “Don’t think I know him, mister.”

  “Him’s a her. Didn’t you talk to Bill Palme tonight?”

  “Oh.” The tone was guarded. “What’s she look like?”