“You’ve got to find out,” she whispered. “You’ve got to. I can’t stand thinking what I think, day after day. Can’t stand seeing him this way. There must be something wrong, or else why would he drink like this?”
I sighed. “You mentioned his drinking before, Miss Trent. And I started to ask you something else, then dropped it. But I’d like to ask again, because it could be important. Very important.”
“Go ahead.”
“Don’t get me wrong, now, but have you ever noticed your brother taking anything besides alcohol?”
“You mean—?”
“That’s right,” I said, gently. “Is he a narcotics addict, have you ever seen him with a reefer?”
She shook her head.
“All right. You’ve been a great help.”
“I must go. He’ll get suspicious, I’ve been away so long.”
“I understand. But from now on, I’ll keep in touch with you. You live at the house there?”
“Yes. But don’t call. He’d be furious. Let me call you. Where can I reach you?”
I hesitated, then gave her the office number. “Give me a day or two,” I said. “Maybe I can find out something. I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
Then she was out the door. I watched her trot up the street, watched her through the rear view mirror. Cute kid. And she wanted to help. A refreshing change from the old buttoned-lips routine I’d been getting. Nothing like a new routine to brighten the day.
A new routine.
I frowned. Could this be a routine, too? A different kind of one? Sure, she might be on the level; just a mixed-up minx with a problem and no shoulder to cry on. Then again, she could be a plant. Hell, how did I even know she was Trent’s sister?
I tried to expel the notion with a sigh. Mustn’t let this get me down. The way I was going, I’d end up trusting nobody. The world wasn’t all phony. There were still plenty of ordinary people around; ordinary, straightforward people who asked straight questions, gave straight answers.
Like this guy with the crewcut who stopped at the side of the car now and stuck his head through the window.
“Hey, Mister,” he said. “Can you tell me how to get over to the LaBrea Tar Pits from here?”
“Why, I guess so.” I slid over in my seat and pointed south. “You take Western Avenue down to Wilshire Boulevard, then turn west on Wilshire and—”
I turned my head. Somebody had opened the other door, next to the wheel. A small man slid into the driver’s seat next to me. He nodded and reached out, and I felt something hard press against my side.
“Sit still,” he said. “No bright ideas.”
I sat still. I didn’t have any bright ideas. No bright ideas about ordinary straightforward people who asked straight questions and gave straight answers.
“Come on, Fritz.”
The guy with the crewcut opened the door on his side and crawled in. I sat there wedged between the two of them. All at once the pressure was gone from my left side. It was replaced by pressure on my right, as the man called Fritz took over.
The small intruder started the car.
“Mind telling me where we’re going?”
Apparently he did, because he didn’t answer.
“Would you pull down that visor? The sun’s in my eye.”
Nobody pulled down the visor. Nobody stirred, or said a word. The small man drove, the big man sat there, and I could feel something pushing hard against my ribs.
“Sure you boys aren’t making a mistake? I don’t get this.”
“You will.” Fritz spoke, and the little man uttered a short bark.
We drove west on Sunset, into the sunset. The car stopped for the lights a half-dozen times. I could look into other cars, see the people passing on the sidewalk, even stare as a squadcar passed us on the left. But I couldn’t utter a sound or make a move. Not with Fritz on the job, not with that constant reminder against my ribs.
Then we turned off down a side street and headed south through a tangle of traffic. The little man drove slowly, as though he were out for a leisurely pleasure trip. Who knows, maybe this was pleasure for him? Anyway, he took his time. And all at once I realized why.
He was waiting for it to get dark.
Now I watched the light dimming. I watched the shadows lengthen on the streets of Santa Monica when we turned west, then south again. I watched the street lights of Venice, glimpsed dusk descend over the ocean. Then we were speeding along the coast highway, heading for Long Beach.
Somewhere, we turned off. Somewhere we turned off and headed for the hills. Oil country, with derricks, dotting the dunes here and there. Some of them were working, others were deserted, pumped out.
It was quite dark now. We were jolting along a back road that was no better than a trail. The dunes rose all around us. No houses out here, just empty space, and the gray dunes looming beneath a black sky.
Abruptly the road came to an end in the middle of nowhere. But the car didn’t stop. We drove on, across the sand. Drove straight ahead into more nowhere. Drove until we rounded the side of a dune and came up against a derrick. It was old and rusty and the wind whistled through the scaffolding.
The car stopped. “Out you go,” said Fritz.
I thought, This is a hell of a place to die. But I got out. Fritz was waiting for me. He took my arm and held it while the little guy came around the front of the car. I had trouble seeing either of them in the dark, but I could feel the big hand squeezing into my arm.
This isn’t happening, I thought. I’ll close my eye and when I open it again, everything will be different. I closed my eye and put my head back.
When I opened it again I could see a single star shining up above. I wished on it. Believe me, I wished on it. But I was still standing there, Fritz still held my arm and the little guy was saying, “All right, Clayburn. Let’s have some answers. Who you working for?”
They’d been fooling me. The thing against my rib hadn’t been a gun at all—just a sap. A long leather sap with a steel handle. I could see it now in the faint light, hear it thump against Fritz’s left palm as he held it in his right hand.
“Come on,” said the little guy. “Give.”
I looked up at the star. Then all at once there were a million stars, and I felt something hot running down the side of my face. Fritz caught me before I fell.
“Sample,” he said.
“Who you working for?” the little guy repeated.
I grunted. “Trade you. You tell me who you’re working for first.”
Crunch. I could hear it this time, hear it as well as feel it. Something hit the other side of my head.
“Who is it? Names.”
“Who are you?” I panted. “Joe Dean, by any chance?”
The wind whistled through the derrick. The sap whistled. The back of my neck went numb, but only for an instant. Then it was a red-hot iron bar that burned and burned, and the sap was whistling again, and I went to my knees but the little guy held me and he said, “Who you working for?” and I tried to make my tongue move.
“Do you smoke reefers?” I wheezed.
Crack. The sap made a sound like a wet towel smacking up against a board, but it wasn’t a wet towel and my lower spine wasn’t a board, and nobody could hear it anyway because this was out in the middle of nowhere. Nobody could hear it, but I could feel it. Feel the fire flooding my kidneys, feel the blood on my knees as I went down, feel the hand tearing at my hair.
“You better talk soon,” the little guy said. “Fritz gets mad easy.” I saw the sap rise in rhythm with the little guy’s voice. “Who you working for?”
“Who are you working—?”
I never finished the sentence. The sap came down, and I tried to twist my head away. I felt a jarring wrench, but no blow.
“Goddamn you!” the little guy howled. “You hit my hand! Jesus, I think my wrist’s busted.”
He let go of me and stood there,
moaning and holding his right hand.
Fritz scowled. “Get out of the way,” he said. “I’ll finish this.” The small man stepped back, letting his partner advance. He crouched before me, and the sap went back.
“Listen,” he said. “I ain’t got all night. This is your last chance. Either you tell us what we want to know, or—”
I swayed there, watching the sap come up again.
“All right, then!” Fritz moved forward and swung the sap down.
I swung with it, dropping to my knees. At the same time I pushed forward, catching him just below the belt with the top of my head. I put all my weight behind it, and he felt it.
At first, when he opened his mouth, I thought he screamed. But he couldn’t scream. It was the other one who made all the racket. Because the big guy fell on top of him.
I raised my head, located the hand holding the sap, and twisted. Then I put my foot down on the fingers and jerked the sap away. I got it free and raised it. I brought it down once, twice, three times. Fritz stopped moving. The little guy beneath him stopped screaming. I wondered if he’d passed out, too.
Well, I’d know in a minute. Now the trick was to lug them both into the car and take them back to town.
I moved toward Fritz, trying to summon up energy for the effort. My knees were wobbly, and I wondered if I could manage to support myself, let alone a big man like Fritz.
I never found out.
Because the little guy wasn’t unconscious. And he wasn’t unarmed, either.
As I stooped over Fritz, the little guy moved. He rolled out from underneath, his left hand dipping towards the coat pocket, then emerging. He groaned and rose to his knees. The hand pointed towards me.
One red burst, and a million echoes, bouncing off the dunes.
One red burst, and then I was running, dodging and weaving as I tried to outguess the gun, outrace the second shot.
The echoes exploded again, and I turned sharply, veering off to the right. It was hard to run, hard to just keep on my feet, even hard to breathe.
Another shot. My head throbbed, my heart was pounding, the back of my neck ached. But I had to get away. I had to.
Then I mounted a rise and looked back. I saw the spurt, but never heard the echoes.
I took one more step and fell into the middle of nowhere.
Chapter Ten
The middle of nowhere isn’t such a bad place to be. The trouble is, you can’t stay there very long. Sooner or later, something starts to throb. At first it’s just a far-off motion you’re aware of; then you begin to react to the throbbing, feel its effects, realize that it’s your head.
Then the pain comes in waves, like the tide washing its way up a beach. The beach is your body, and it lies there and lets the pain ebb and flow, ebb and flow, over your head, over your neck, over your shoulders and arms and chest.
Finally you decide to do something about it, something hard, like opening your eyes.
That’s what I did, eventually. I opened my eye and found myself lying at the bottom of the dune. I’d pitched off the top, apparently, and slid down. The bullet hadn’t hit me, the fall didn’t break any bones. It was the sapping that caused the pain, and that was enough. I ached all over.
I lay there, moving my hand over my limbs and torso. I stretched my legs, sat up, steadied myself against a long moment of dizziness, and then I listened.
No sound. Nothing to hear. And nothing to see, either, in the dark. I gazed up at the rim of the dune, towards the sky beyond. The first star was still twinkling.
Damn you, I thought, I’ll never wish on you again.
I wondered about my little playmates. Were they still looking for me in the dark? Well, I could join the game. Hide-and-seek didn’t exactly appeal to me at the moment, but I knew I’d better play along.
The dune was high. I started to stand up, then decided it would be more comfortable to crawl. I inched forward, upward, until I clung to the dune’s lip, peering over towards the derrick.
By this time my eye was adapted to the light, or the lack of it. I gazed at the ground, looking for Fritz. He was gone. And the small man wasn’t there, either.
More important, and more convincing to me, was the realization that my car was gone, too.
Of course, they might be waiting down the road. But I’d have to chance it.
I stood up, took a deep breath. My ribs protested, but my lungs enjoyed it, so I took another. And another. Gradually my head cleared. I found I could walk.
Making my way into the shadow of the derrick, I examined the sand. Plenty of footprints, and the imprint of Fritz’s body, plus my own. And the car tracks, two sets of them. They’d turned and gone out the same way; there was no other choice.
I followed the tracks, moving slowly and cautiously. I wound my way along until I could see the road. It was clear. Then I started walking. It seemed like forever before I hit the highway. It seemed like forever before I thumbed a ride. I guess nobody was interested in picking up a bleeding stranger with an eye-patch who stood on the highway in the middle of the night. Nobody except an ambulance driver.
But as luck would have it, I got the next best thing. The car that finally halted contained a Dr. Engebrusher, of Santa Monica. He took an immediate professional interest in me. I regaled him with the story of my mysterious assailants as we drove to his home.
Once there, he patched me up. I don’t know if he believed me at first, but he patched me up. And when I asked to use his phone, I guess he realized my story was straight. He listened while I dialed the L.A. police and reported that my car was missing. Then I told them about the assault. They were very courteous; told me to stay right where I was until they signaled a squad car to pick me up and bring me in.
I asked for Thompson, then. My luck was holding. He was on duty, late as it was.
“Hello, this is Mark Clayburn. I just gave your people a report. Want to hear it?”
His groan was audible over the phone. “Now what?” he said.
I told him what it was now. All of it. All of it except why. That I had to change to protect Bannock. I made the reason appear to be that they were trying to find out what I knew about the deaths. Which, in a way, was still true enough. Then I described my playmates, in rich and, I fear, somewhat profane detail.
“Recognize the little guy?” I asked. “Sound like Dean, by any chance?”
“A little. In fact, more than a little. But it wasn’t,” Thompson answered.
“Why do you say that?”
“According to your story, you were picked up around four or four-thirty, right?”
“Right.”
“And they drove you south and jumped you about an hour and a half, say two hours later?”
“That’s about it. I figure seven o’clock, thereabouts,” I said.
“Well, at seven o’clock, thereabouts, Dean was sitting here in this office, telling us he didn’t know anything about where Estrellita Juarez had run off to.”
“Must have been two other guys,” I told him.
“Must have been. But don’t worry, we’ll check the files. Probably have lots of pictures waiting for you by the time you get down here.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. We aim to please.”
I hung up. I was just forcing ten bucks on Dr. Engebrusher when the squad car arrived for me.
After that, we went into action.
I’ve got to hand it to the boys; maybe they were having a little trouble finding a murderer, but there was nothing wrong with their methods.
They didn’t take me right in. They took me back to the place where I got slugged. They made me reconstruct the action, took down a full description of everything. They contacted the State Highway Patrol about covering the scene in daylight to look for the bullets. The bulletin about the car and the description of Fritz and his little friend had already gone out.
There were three men in the car, and we had quite a chat as we finally drove downtown. They want
ed to know all about the Foster case, of course. One of them, off the record, seemed to disagree with my theory that the killing was the work of a cold-blooded, calculating murderer.
“He must have been nuts,” he told me. “Anybody that breaks in on a dish like that Polly Foster just to shoot her has to be crazy.”
He turned to me. “You’re the one who found her, isn’t that so? What kind of a story is that, about going out there to get her autograph?”
“It’s the truth,” I said. “So help me.”
“What kind of a dame was she? I mean, on the level.”
“Sorry. I only met her once. And our relations were strictly vertical.”
He didn’t get it, but the cop who was driving laughed.
“I guess they’re all alike,” he said. “All them Hollywood people. Bunch of screwballs, in one mess after another.”
“You know better than that,” I answered. “There’s hundreds who never get into any trouble. Lots of nice, decent citizens in the movie colony, just as there’s lots of nice, decent citizens down on Olive, or Main. But the few exceptions, the wrongos, are the only ones you ever hear about. That’s what gives a bad reputation to the whole bunch.”
“Pretty funny talk, coming from a guy who’s just been beat up the way you have.”
“Maybe so, but it’s the truth. What about your Department? There’ve been cases where a couple of cops went off the deep end. But does that mean you’re all crooked?”
“He’s right, Evans,” said the man sitting next to me. “And I’m sorry I sounded off that way about Polly Foster. But you know how you get after a few years in this game.”
We reached our destination, but I didn’t see Thompson waiting for me. My business was with another department. They had everything ready for me to swear out a complaint, and they took down the story and the description again, and then a sergeant brought out the file and I started to look at faces.
As I said before, all very efficient and quite polite. It was nice to be on the other side of the fence for a change, after the grilling I’d taken when they heard about Polly Foster.
I was even beginning to relish the attention a little, enjoy the way they hovered over me as I checked the photos. Then they took the play away from me. Somebody buzzed the sergeant and he hit the phone.
Hard Case Crime: Shooting Star & Spiderweb Page 8