by Jay Flynn
“I think she lied in her pretty teeth. Where’d she say she was born and what was her unmarried name?”
“Girorti. At Fallon, in your state of Nevada.”
“Good.” McHugh made notes. “Would you have a photo?”
“Certainly. I’ll send one air mail.”
“Appreciate that. Any more to it?”
“Nothing of consequence. The three men claimed to be business partners of Señor Artellan. They claimed that the present conditions in their country led them to feel it would be wise to convert their hoard into Mexican currency. They admitted smuggling it out of Cuba.”
“You have no lead to the missing money?”
“None, I regret to admit. I’d like to be sure your Mr. Dant and mine are the same.”
“We’ll send you a picture. Many thanks, General.”
“De nada, amigo.”
McHugh cradled the phone. He got another bottle of beer and drank it slowly, considering his new information.
Carlotta Artellan could well be the woman who visited Dant at his motel in the city. She could be the woman who got into Cecille Marie Harnois’ safety deposit box.
Once her picture came up from Mexico, that point would be easy enough to check. The FBI could trace her from her hometown in a matter of hours, with some luck.
So find Carlotta Artellan, or whatever she was calling herself at the moment. Do that, and you might find a certain package and know a little more about what the hell was going on, McHugh told himself.
He picked up the phone and dialed the FBI number.
Los Angeles broiled in the unrelenting blast of a Santayana windstorm. The searing currents of air drove across the basin, carrying the dry heat of the desert, and gray-brown clouds of dust. It whined around the windows as the FBI agent flipped through the thick file, picked out the important parts and condensed them in a voice that was dry as the wind.
“We haven’t turned up much to go on at this end,” the agent admitted. “Absolutely no link between Dant and Gilbert and mob money. Gilbert is worth a pile that would make you blink, and he has been for years, and Dant wasn’t doing bad. No big heat on, the kind that would make a man who’s been honest take a flier on a big, offbeat heist.”
“But Dant did it,” McHugh insisted. “Or had a hand in it. Likewise, he had some contact with Girolamo. He didn’t just happen to flag him down and hitch a ride up the Mexican coast.”
“Sure. You figure it. I can’t.”
“Women?”
“Like I said—Dant liked the ladies. Twenty-nine juicy young things had their names in his address book. We checked each and every one, and they come out clean.”
“Twenty-nine,” McHugh said thoughtfully. “A harem. How does a man go about meeting twenty-nine juicy young things? Without being a bartender or something equally exalted?”
“A lot of them said it was the boat. He had that big Chris-Craft inboard. Every weekend he’d hit some marina and have a load aboard. A real going concern.
“Yeah. I guess that would do it,” McHugh admitted. “His stuff still at his apartment?”
“Yeah. He had three months to go on his lease, and it was paid up. We’ve been over it a dozen times. Nothing but what I told you already.”
“I might as well have a look.”
The FBI man shrugged. He took a key from his desk and tossed it to McHugh.
The apartment house was west of the city, in a new development in the foothills of the Santa Monica mountains. McHugh checked the number on the key tag and rode the elevator to the seventh floor. The corridors were cool, well carpeted. He slid the key into the lock and twisted it.
Deane Dant had lived well. The living room furniture was expensive, comfortable modern. The west wall of the room was all window, with a small balcony overlooking Santa Monica and the ocean. There was a bedroom with a different view. A short hall off the living room led to the bathroom and Pullman kitchen. McHugh lit a cigarette slowly, reaching for the feel of the place, concluded that little of the man who had lived there was left. Cleaning women had sucked the ghosts up in their vacuum cleaners.
He checked closets, found a big one, still filled with Dant’s clothes. He wondered what the man had had against domestic tailors and haberdashers. Everything had been imported. He wandered back to the living room and settled himself behind a desk that did not look like a desk. The locked drawers yielded without protest to a pick.
There were large empty spaces. Imprints in a thin film of dust suggested that books of some sort had filled them before the FBI and Treasury men moved in. He opened the second drawer and found a cheap folding file of the type used often to keep household records. He put it on the desk top, fingered through the partitions and grunted in disappointment when he saw it contained only receipted bills. They ranged from liquor store to garage to boatyard and tailor accounts. The amounts involved seemed to be reasonable for a single man who was prospering in business. He went through them any-way, pausing when he came to the speedboat accounts.
He turned, looked through the window at the shine of the Pacific beyond Santa Monica, five miles away. Santa Monica was fat with boat dealers and yards that could handle a twenty-four-foot inboard.
But a place called Barney’s had done most of Dant’s work. And Barney s, according to the invoices, was in San Pedro. About as far away as you could get and still hit water in Los Angeles.
Why drive thirty miles through the world’s worst traffic? A man would be nuts, with Santa Monica so close.
McHugh sighed and stuffed the invoices into his pocket. He locked the apartment door behind him, braced himself with two shots of whisky and a beer in a neighborhood bar and drove his rented car through thirty miles of the world’s worst traffic.
Barney’s was one of several boatyards near the tip of the harbor. McHugh passed scores of deep-sea fishing boats, moored side by side, and drove through the wide gate in the cyclone fence. There were three marine railways slanting down to the water, and a power hoist for lifting small boats onto the concrete dock. Workmen sanded and hammered and scraped and painted boats of varying sizes and shapes. As a breed, boats are particularly ungainly out of the water, McHugh thought. Something like swans. He found a small office in one end of a stucco building that was dark and crowded with marine engines, coiled line, weights, tool kits and other seagoing-type materials. A middle-aged woman hung up the phone as he leaned on the counter, then looked up inquiringly.
“I’d like to see Barney, please.”
“There is no Barney. Hasn’t been for years. Joe Galt is the boss now.”
“Well, I’d like to see Joe, if he’s handy.”
The woman pushed a button, picked up a small microphone and said, “Joe—front office. Man to see you.” Her voice crackled metallically through a loudspeaker.
Several minutes passed before a rear door banged open. The man who came in was short, with knots of muscle under his T-shirt. He wiped his hands on faded jeans and eyed McHugh with the squint of a man who has spent his life on or around the water.
McHugh pushed his hat back on his head. “My name is McHugh. I’m an attorney. Got a few minutes free?”
“Sure. What happened? Some guy fall off the dock and want to sue me again?” He fished a bent cigarette from a pocket and fit it with a wooden match. “Come on in my cubby hole and we’ll talk.”
The back office was tiny, its windows dark with water-front grime. There was a battered desk and a large table covered with repair manuals. Galt slapped dust from a wooden chair with a rag, hoisted himself to the table and swung his legs as he waited for McHugh to speak.
“Nobody fell off your dock. I just want some information about one of your customers. Deane Dant.”
Galt rolled the cigarette across his lower lip with his tongue. “Uh-huh. I saw he got killed. Wondered when somebody’d come around about his boat.”
“It’s here?”
“Yeah. He brought it in for a tune a couple of months back. I got it under a tar
p out in the shed now.”
“How come he brought it here? The man lived clear up in Brentwood.”
Galt shrugged. “I do good work. Dant liked that Chris-Craft to stand up on its prop and go. He’s had three hot numbers that I know of, and I’ve taken care of all three.”
McHugh got up and stared out the window. He could see most of the yard. “From what I see here, you go in for heavier stuff. Work boats.”
“Sure. That’s where the big money is. Two thousand bucks for a reduction gear on a big trawler, anywhere from four to ten grand for engines.”
“Uh-huh,” McHugh lit a cigar and studied Galt thoughtfully. “How much work have you done on the Rosa?”
“Rosa? Which one?”
“Gino Girolamo’s boat.”
“Oh.” Galt did not change expression. “Wait a minute.” He left the room, returning quickly with a thick folder. “Plenty. She’s been in two or three times a year for a good stretch. Installed new diesels last year, worked over the winch last spring, sold him a couple of anchors, haul her and work the bottom over every season. He’s a good account Want to look it over?”
“Not yet. When was she in last?”
Galt thumbed through the folder. “Couple of weeks back. Fuel injector trouble. Turned out there wasn’t anything wrong with the injectors, but the lines were clogged. He got hold of some bad oil on his last trip.”
“How many were aboard?”
Galt rubbed his chin. “Beats me. Just his regular crew, I guess. Three or four guys.”
“Deane Dant wasn’t one of them?”
“Now what the hell would Dant be doing on a fish boat?”
“You didn’t see him?”
“No. Matter of fact, I didn’t see anybody but Girolamo. I was here in the office when they pulled in. He came up, told me his troubles. I said I’d take care of it, and he left. He called the next day. We had it all done, and they took the boat out that night. Before you ask, I didn’t see anybody but him.”
“Okay. Tell me this—you ever see Dant and Girolamo talking around the yard?”
Galt rubbed his sun-bleached hair. “You ever run a boatyard, mister, you’d know better than to expect much of an answer to that one. Dant used to stop around a lot. Boat people are pretty friendly. They yak, lend a hand back and forth. For all I know, they could have been sleeping together. Only I never caught them.”
McHugh grinned, but he was not happy. He had hoped for a solid connection between Dant and Girolamo here. It hadn’t materialized. He thanked Galt and left.
He turned up toward Inglewood, reviewing the case in his mind but finding little to be satisfied with by the time he turned into the entrance of International Airport.
Climbing the stairs to Mike Lyman’s bar, he decided there was no other way. He would have to tie a knot in Girolamo’s tail.
CHAPTER 10
SAN FRANCISCO HAD A report on Carlotta Artellan.
“She’s our girl,” Murrell said, shoving his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Married Dant at Reno about ten years ago. He was doing accounting work for a gambling house at the time. And, by the way, her names really Carla, not Carlotta. The marriage lasted a couple of years. She subsequently went through two other husbands. One’s a plumbing contractor, and the other runs a lumber yard. No possible connection. She met Artellan in Cuba. He had a piece of a casino there, and he survived the change in government. He did, but the gambling business didn’t. So far as we know, he’s in with some others—including Señors Real, Quesada and Olivera—and trying to get into a line of work Castro approves of. A CIA team in Cuba checked this part of it for us—Artellan et al are in hot water over the Mexican deal. They weren’t supposed to skedaddle with that wad of pesos. Artellan has either skipped the country or gone into hiding. And, of course, we’ve got no idea where his wife is at the moment.”
“I have,” McHugh said. “I think she’s out looking for a couple of suitcases stuffed with money.”
“But that box at the bank—” Murrell began.
“Not big enough,” McHugh interrupted “It was about the size of a cigar box, remember?”
“So what was in it? Where does it fit?”
“A billygoat’s beard could be in it for all I know. Just a guess—I’d say there isn’t much doubt Dant went to Mexico to trade for the pesos. He was going to give whatever was in the box.”
“Reasonable.” Murrell rubbed his nearly bald head. “But, if he was going to steal the pesos, why would he bring anything to trade?”
McHugh shrugged. “Another guess. He didn’t, at first. After it started and his ex-wife was in it, they could have cooked up the caper.”
“Uh-huh. If Girolamo picked him up, they had the arrangements made a long time before. He didn’t just go down to the beach and wave his shirt.”
“Yeah. Well, there’s an answer somewhere.”
“Fine. Let me know when you find out.”
McHugh grinned. He felt the hard lump of the automatic on his belt “I’ll do that I’ll go ask Girolamo.”
Fog crawled through the pine and cypress on the Monterey hills. Behind the bar at the Barrel, Bill Palme tossed off a shot neat and eyed McHugh speculatively.
“You’re hotter than a two-dollar pistol in a Western movie. I’m not so cool myself.”
“Oh?” McHugh sipped his Scotch and soda.
“A professional gun was in a couple of days ago. Name of Joe Pastori. He wanted you. Which is not good, because he’s definitely Mafia.”
“What brought him here?”
“Girolamo or somebody got the number of my car that night. This hood came.”
“Alone?”
“Alone. Made no bones about who he was or what. Said if I knew what was good for me I’d come across on you.”
“And...”
“I came across the bar and fed him the business end of a softball bat. Cracked his goddam skull. He got out of the hospital this morning.”
“Where do I find him?”
“Look Girolamo up. He’s probably somewhere close.” Palme poured himself another shot. “And don’t forget that phone number I gave you. You could need it. Matter of fact, I can get Charlie to take the bar over here and tag along if you like.”
“Thanks. Better not, though. Keep your cover here intact as long as you can.”
McHugh left the bar. The waterfront was three blocks away, the gray fingers of its two piers losing themselves in the bank of fog. He walked out on the one to the right, trying to make out the shapes of the anchored boats. He had no idea which was the Rosa; he was not even sure she was still in port.
The piers were about a quarter-mile apart. Across the dark gap of water McHugh could see the diffused lights of the restaurants and bars that were the principal business places of the other pier. It was called Fisherman’s Wharf, but with the exception of a handful of retail fish markets, it had little connection with fishing. The big commercial boats did their business on the second wharf, which was bare except for two small boat-rental places, a bait shop and a couple of big corrugated steel buildings where catches were unloaded. A single fight burned dimly near the outer end, revealing a few cars parked there. McHugh’s footsteps were muted on the heavy planks, and the fog swallowed him.
He could not pick out the Rosa, but there were only five of the fat purse seiners moored to the buoys that dotted the water. He walked back along the pier and found a ladder that led to a landing.
There were skiffs under the wharf, swung from crude davits. He searched until he found one with the oars in it, then released the falls. The skiff rocked threateningly under his weight as he used an oar to pole it away from the wharf. He rowed with silent strokes, pulling for the first of the pursers. It was not the Rosa. He went on to the second. When he came to the fourth one, the beam of his flashlight picked up the name painted on the broad stem. He rowed around the boat, looking, listening for the sound of men aboard.
The boat seemed to be deserted. He tied the skiff’
s painter to the fantail, caught the rail and hoisted himself aboard. He dropped to the deck and crouched, waiting, his hand close to the butt of his gun. His breathing and the distant moan of a foghorn were the only sounds to reach him over the soft slap of the ocean against the Rosa. The boat lifted and dropped sluggishly on a swell, and the hawsers which moored it to the buoys creaked. McHugh got his flashlight ready and moved toward the deckhouse. A padlocked door barred his way. Working in the dark, he used a slender pick on the lock. It snapped, and the door slid back on oiled runners.
Shielding the light with his hand, he stepped into the deckhouse. It smelled of salt air and faintly of fish. He saw four bunks, stripped to thin mattresses, secured to the bulkheads on either side. His foot struck the edge of a hatch. He bent and tugged the heavy lid up. A ladder led downward to the bowels of the boat, and he saw the pair of big marine engines, a cluster of pipes and valves, a refrigeration unit with its own motor. McHugh, playing the light along the engines, whistled softly. They looked big enough to move the Rosa along a hell of a lot faster than any fishing boat has to go. He dropped the hatch cover into place and climbed a ladder that led upward to the wheelhouse. Through a porthole he caught a flash of light, then saw a car stopping at the lighted area in front of the iron sheds.
He waited, watching while the headlights were extinguished. The sound of doors being slammed carried across the water, and shadowy forms melted into the bowl of darkness. He went on with his search and found a small, leather-bound book on a shelf near the big wheel. The binding was cracked, the pages well-thumbed. He flipped it open and saw it was the Rosa’s log. He crouched below the level of the portholes and held the slender flashlight in his teeth while he checked the entries.
It looked as though the Rosa had been at sea seven weeks on her last trip, ranging far to the south, off the lower Mexican coast. McHugh hummed softly with satisfaction when he saw that the trawler had put into Acapulco for refueling. The date was the same one on which the Cubans had been relieved of their pesos. She had left the following day and proceeded directly to Los Angeles. McHugh, making a rough calculation, guessed that the boat had made the run at about twenty knots.