by Ross Thomas
“Ask him,” I said.
“All right, goddamn it, I’m asking you!” It came out a yell and this time Luccarella heard it himself. “Sorry,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “I gotta watch that. I just get too enthusiastic. I’m impatient, you know. My analyst says that there’s nothing wrong with being impatient. He said a lot of great men have been noted for their impatience. But it’s gotta be channeled, he says. It’s a type of energy and it’s gotta be directed. Now then, Chief, I’m gonna ask you again calmly. See how calm I am? What do you mean by almost we got a deal?”
“The word got around that Lynch was slipping so some of them came down to see if it was true.”
Luccarella gestured impatiently. “I heard about that. Dye here told me about it. Jimmy Twoshoes from Chicago and Sweet Eddie Puranelli out of Cleveland. Couple of others. They’ll forget about it when they hear Lynch’s out.”
“They’ve heard,” Necessary said.
“So they’ll get out.”
“They’ve heard something else.”
“What?”
“They’ve heard you’re slipping.”
I estimated that roughly $30,000 worth of analysis was destroyed by Necessary’s comment. Luccarella shot up out of his seat. “Me?” It was a scream this time, not a yell. “Who said I’m slipping? Who’s the sonofabitch who said it, Necessary?” He was stalking about the room now, knocking into furniture. He picked up an ashtray and smashed it against the wall. “Slipping, huh? Who said it, goddamn it? I’ll fix that sonofabitch. You think I’m slipping, Samuels? Did you tell ‘em I’m slipping?” He rushed over and grabbed the lawyer by his shirt front and jerked him from the couch. “What are you, a goddamned spy?”
“I never said—”
Luccarella dropped the lawyer, who sank back down on the couch. He spun around to face us. “You guys—you guys told them I’m slipping. You set it all up, I can tell. You guys are trying to fix me. You’re trying to get everything for yourself. I can’t trust nobody. I can’t even—”
“Shut up, Luccarella!” It was either Necessary’s harsh, slashing tone or my hangover, but it made me start. It also stopped Luccarella in mid-sentence.
“Bad, wasn’t it?” he said and hung his head like a scolded child. “I know what it is, all right. My analyst explained it all to me. It’s paranoia. That means that you think people are plotting against you when they’re not. He said lots of great men have had it and have gone on to live real useful lives.”
“It’s not paranoia this time,” Necessary said. “These guys think Swankerton’s ripe and they think you’ve slipped and they’re set to move in and move you out.”
“You can stop them,” Luccarella said.
“It’s not my job when you think about it,” Necessary said. “I can get my cut from them. They’ll give me a deal, just like you’ve done. But you already know the operation and that’s why I prefer to do business with you. Dye and me don’t want to spend our time breaking in the new help.”
“So it’s up to me,” Luccarella said in a quiet tone.
“That’s right,” Necessary said. “It’s up to you. All me and Dye can give you is our unofficial support. You’ll have that.”
Luccarella turned to Samuels. “Get on the phone and call Ricci. Explain it. Tell him to get up here and to bring a dozen with him. If he has to import a few, tell him he can pay top dollar.” He gave the instructions in a low, confident tone and for the first time I saw some reason for him to have risen as far as he had. “Now,” he added, and Samuels rose and hurried to the door.
Luccarella turned to Necessary and in that same, quiet, emotionless tone said, “I want all of their names and where they’re staying.”
“Sure,” Necessary said and told him. Luccarella didn’t seem to need to write anything down.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all I know about, although I’ve heard that some of them are moving their people in.”
Luccarella nodded. “I want this deal, Chief. I need it if you want to know the truth and I don’t care if you do or not. I’ve had a little trouble lately, but I’m getting that cleared up with the help of my analyst. He told me that I should trust people more. That I’m too suspicious. So I’m gonna take his advice. I’m gonna trust you and Dye. Bad things, real bad things happen to people who I trust and who then cross me. I don’t want anything bad to happen to either of you.”
“You take care of your end, we’ll take care of ours,” Necessary said.
“We’d still like to go over those books,” I said.
Luccarella pointed at one of the briefcases. “There’s a duplicate set in there. Take ‘em with you. It’s got everything—names, addresses, cash flow, everything. Lynch kept a good set of books, I’ll say that for him. He didn’t cross me either, so nothing bad’s going to happen to him. He just made a mistake. I can take that. But I can’t take being crossed by people I trust.”
“You’ve made that clear,” I said and picked up the briefcase.
Shorty stuck his head in the door. “What the hell you want?” Luccarella said.
“It’s for him,” he said, pointing at me. “It’s some chick on the phone called Thackerty. She’s all shook and says that she has to talk to him so I said I’d see.”
“I’ll take it,” I said and crossed to the telephone and picked it up.
“What’s the problem?” I said.
“It’s Orcutt,” she said.
“What about him?”
“You’d better get up here.”
“Up where?”
“His suite.”
“What about him?” I said again.
“He’s dead and they took away his face.”
CHAPTER 39
Necessary hurried through the door to Orcutt’s suite first, followed by Sergeant Krone who had drawn his revolver. I came last, carrying the briefcase.
Carol Thackerty stood by the window that offered a view of the Gulf of Mexico but she wasn’t looking at it. She was looking at the skinny gray-haired man who knelt by Orcutt’s body. The gray-haired man rocked back and forth and crooned to himself. His hands were pressed together as if he were praying. A long-barreled revolver lay on the floor beside Orcutt. Two feet away from it was a wide-mouthed glass jar, the kind that will hold a pint of mayonnaise. I could smell the exploded gunpowder, but there was another, sharper smell that stung my nostrils. I didn’t know what it was.
Necessary moved quickly over to Orcutt and lifted the towel from his face.
“I put it there,” Carol said. “I came in and saw him and put the towel over his face.”
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want—” the gray-haired man crooned in a singsong voice and rocked back and forth some more on his knees.
Necessary beckoned to me and I went over to Orcutt’s body. He lifted the towel again. Carol Thackerty had been right; something had taken away his face. The nose was almost gone, and there was some bone visible and also some blood. Only the eyes were the same, and they contained no more in death than they had in life. Necessary dropped the towel back into place.
“You know him, don’t you?” he said, jerking a thumb at the kneeling man.
“Frank Mouton, candidate for the city council.”
Necessary shook his head and turned to Sergeant Krone.
“Call Benson at Homicide and tell him to get his crew over here.” Krone hurried to a phone.
Necessary turned to Carol. “Well?” he said.
“I have my own key,” she said. “You know I have my own key.”
“I know,” Necessary said in a patient, reassuring voice.
“I was in the hall when I heard the shots. I was still in the hall and I heard three shots.”
“Take it easy, Carol,” I said.
“Let her tell it,” Necessary said.
“When I heard the shots I hurried and I got so frantic that I couldn’t find the keys in my purse and then I found them and finally got the door open and he was knee
ling over Orcutt and praying and pouring this stuff on his face.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “So I called you and then got a towel and put it over his face.” She turned and stared through the window at the Gulf.
Mouton must have been close to sixty. His hair was gray and sparse on top of his long slab of a head. He had closely set, dark eyes. They looked out of focus behind his rimless glasses that were cocked a little to one side about halfway down a long, thin nose that seemed to have too many veins in it. His red, wet mouth was open now, crooning something else. He rocked back and forth and then started on the Twenty-third Psalm again. He wore a tan raincoat that was buttoned up to his neck.
Homer Necessary walked around him, got down on his hands and knees and smelled the empty pint jar. He rose and stared at Mouton. “Some kind of acid,” Necessary said. He walked over to the kneeling man and nudged him with his foot. “Hey, Mouton,” he said.
Mouton looked up at him. “Amen,” he said.
“What d’you kill him for?”
“He was a son of Satan,” Mouton said. “Father, forgive them for they know not what—”
“Get up,” Necessary snapped.
“I am the resurrection and the life—”
“Get your ass up,” Necessary said again in a hard voice and grabbed Mouton by an elbow and jerked him to his feet.
“Whosoever believeth—”
“He’s a deacon in his church,” I said.
“I remember,” Necessary said. “Take off your raincoat, Deacon.”
Mouton looked coy and suddenly went into a pose that resembled September Morn. “Not in front of you,” he said.
“Jesus,” Necessary said.
Mouton looked wildly around the room. He saw Carol Thackerty and smiled and I couldn’t find much sanity in that smile. “I’ll show her!” he said.
“All right,” Necessary said, “show her.”
Carol turned from the window as Mouton moved over to her. “You’re very pretty,” he said, unbuttoning his raincoat. “I like pretty girls. I’m going to show you something nice.” He held his raincoat open.
Carol looked at him and then turned back to the window. “He’s naked underneath the coat,” she said in a dull tone. “He’s got the legs of his trousers belted to his thighs somehow, but the rest of him’s naked.” She paused. “He’s ugly.”
Mouton spun around and held his raincoat wide open so that we could all take a look. He was ugly all right. “Button that up, mister!” Sergeant Krone snapped, and Mouton pouted before he rebuttoned the coat up to his neck.
Mouton looked down at Orcutt’s body. “It’s all so confusing. First, I was Judas and he was the Savior and then he was Judas and I was—I was—” He stopped, looked at me, and then in a calm, rational voice said, “I’m a professional man, you know.”
“I know.”
“I’m a pharmacist,” he said, a little desperately this time.
“I know,” I said again.
“Why d’you kill him, Mouton?” Necessary asked.
“Why?”
“That’s right. Why?”
“Because, you miserable fuckhead, God told me to!” With that, he walked over to a chair and sat down. He closed his eyes and refused to say anything else. The homicide cops finally took him away not long after Orcutt’s body was carted off to the morgue where they found three bullets in it.
Carol Thackerty answered the phone when it rang in Orcutt’s bedroom-office where the three of us sat. The homicide crew was still busy in the living room. Forty minutes had passed since they had taken Mouton away.
“It’s Channing d’Arcy Phetwick the third,” Carol said. “He wants to talk to whoever’s in charge of Victor Orcutt Associates.”
I made no move toward the phone and neither did Necessary. Finally, he said, “Take it, Dye.”
I took the phone and said, “Lucifer Dye.”
Old man Phetwick’s voice was dry and gritty as emery dust. “I am grieved to learn of Mr. Orcutt’s death,” he said.
“Yes. All of us are.”
“So is Doctor Colfax, who is on the line with me.”
“I was sorry to hear about it,” Colfax said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Poor Mouton, too,” Phetwick said. “Is he really mad?”
“I’m no doctor,” I said, “but he looked crazy to me.”
“Orcutt’s death changes things,” Colfax said, all business now that condolence time was over.
“Especially for Orcutt,” I said.
“With the Lynch person gone and with the police department reorganized by Mr. Necessary, I think our main objectives have been accomplished,” Phetwick said. “In view of Mr. Orcutt’s death, we have decided that we can dispense with the services of his firm. This is no reflection on you, Mr. Dye, and we expect to offer a generous cancellation settlement.”
“You want us to pack up and leave then?” I said, more for the benefit of Necessary and Carol than for my own clarification. I understood what he wanted.
“Well, yes, if you insist on putting it that way,” Phetwick said.
Dr. Colfax chimed in. “You did your job, Dye, and a damned good one. Now we don’t need you anymore, so we’ll pay you off and everybody’s happy.”
I decided to go formal. “Would you hold on please while I confer with my colleagues for a moment?”
“Sure,” Colfax said.
I turned to Necessary and Carol. “They want us to bug out,” I said. “They’ll make a cash settlement.”
Necessary frowned and carefully removed a piece of lint from the sleeve of his blue uniform. He looked at Carol. “Had Orcutt told them about what Dye and I have got set up with Luccarella and the out-of-town guys?” he said.
“No,” she said. “He was going to tell them today.”
“He tell them about the senator and the magazine?”
She nodded. “He told them about that. Phetwick’s already got the counter-attack written.”
“They’re trying to cool it off,” Necessary said.
“So it seems,” I said and took my hand from the mouthpiece of the phone. “It’ll only be a few seconds,” I said.
“Take your time,” Colfax said and chuckled to demonstrate that he understood how people might scurry about when they suddenly found themselves out of their jobs.
“Well?” I said.
Necessary looked down at his blue left sleeve again, stroked it gently with his right hand, smiled to himself, and then looked up at me. “I think,” he said softly, “I think they’re going to have to fire themselves a chief of police.”
I nodded. “Carol?”
“I’d like to see if he gets the girl in the last reel.”
I took my hand from the phone. I looked at the mouthpiece rather than at Carol and Necessary. I felt their eyes on me. I took a deep breath. “I explained things to them,” I said.
Phetwick’s voice was dry and remote. “I knew that they would be reason—”
“Our answer is no,” I said and hung up.
CHAPTER 40
I wasn’t asleep when Necessary called at six-thirty Friday morning. I was lying in Carol’s bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinking about Victor Orcutt. He seemed far more attractive in death than he had in life, but there must be a great many persons who seem that way.
“It’s started,” Necessary said.
“When?”
“Just before dawn. Luccarella and his friends went calling.”
“On who?” I asked.
“On all of them.”
“What happened?”
“The next flight out of here is a direct one to Minneapolis and St. Paul. It leaves in fifteen minutes. Tex Turango’s on it.”
“He’s from Dallas,” I said.
“The Onealo brothers are from Kansas City, but they’re on it, too,” Necessary said.
“Anyone else?” I said.
“Sweet Eddie Puranelli. All he could get was economy class.”
“But he took it
.”
“Uh-huh,” Necessary said. “And glad to get it. Lt. Ferkaire says Puranelli doesn’t look too well. There’re some teeth missing, Ferkaire says, and one eye’s closed, and something’s wrong with his nose. Looks busted, Ferkaire says.”
“He’ll feel better back in Cleveland,” I said. “What about Nigger Jones and Jimmy Schoemeister?”
“That’s why I’m calling you.”
“Where are you?” I said.
“In the lobby.”
“I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”
“Make it ten,” Necessary said and hung up.
Carol rolled over in the bed and propped herself up on an elbow. “Necessary?” she said.
“He said it’s started.”
“You want some coffee?”
“No time.”
“I can use the immersion unit.”
“Okay,” I said and started to dress. She had the instant coffee ready by the time I came out of the bathroom. I drank two sips and lit a cigarette. I used to smoke Pall Malls then.
“He say anything else?” she asked.
“Some are leaving town; some aren’t.” I drank more of the coffee and then handed her the cup.
“I never knew what life could be, Captain,” she said, “until you came here to Pago Pago.”
I kissed her. “I’m riding with them, Alma,” I said. “Sodbusters’ve got rights too.”
Necessary was pacing the lobby when I stepped out of the elevator. His eyes looked tired and bloodshot and it gave them a peculiar three-toned look, or four, if you counted their whites.
“You took long enough,” he said in the grumpy voice of a man who’s been up most of the night.
“I had to rinse out a few things,” I said and followed him to the long black Imperial which waited in front with Sergeant Krone at the wheel.
Once we were rolling I asked Necessary about Nigger Jones and Jimmy Twoshoes. He shook his head as if trying to clear it. “They won’t budge,” he said. “Their people came in last night. Schoemeister’s got about a dozen; Nigger Jones’s got about the same.”
“What’s Luccarella got now?”
“About ten from New Orleans and maybe a dozen more from back east. Ferkaire’s keeping score out at the airport.”