Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. We can—”

  “There’s Swig—” Canelli interrupted. “Over there, in that green Ford. In front of the topless bar.” As Canelli spoke, Swig sat up straighter in his seat, furtively waving. I lifted four fingers, then switched on my mini walkie-talkie and turned the channel selector to four.

  “Anything?” I asked, leaning to my left, to conceal the radio behind the dashboard.

  “Nothing.”

  “Where’s Marsten?”

  “He’s out in back. In the alley.”

  “Find out if he’s seen anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A moment later Swig came back on the air. “Marsten says that about fifteen minutes ago the subject went up on the roof of the building. He took the fire escape up, Marsten says. He was wearing a sweat shirt and clogs, and had a towel under his arm.”

  I looked up at the building’s roof. On the left, 387 Mason Street shared a common wall with a taller building, six stories high. The building on the right was the same height as 387 Mason, but the two buildings were separated by at least ten feet. If, for some reason, Blake decided to run, escape across the rooftops was impossible.

  “All right. We’ve come to take him into custody. Advise Marsten. Hold your positions until we’ve got Blake in the car. Then you can take off. The surveillance is over.”

  “Right.”

  As we got out of the car and walked across the narrow, littered street, Canelli said, “It sounds like Blake’s taking a sun bath.” He looked up at the sky. “It’s sure not much of a day for it.”

  Not replying, I pushed open the sagging door and crossed the lobby to the stairs. “No elevator,” Canelli muttered. “Naturally.”

  Five minutes of hard, sweaty climbing took us to the fourth-floor corridor, where we stopped to catch our breath. The foul-smelling corridor reeked of stale cooking, urine and dust. As we stood panting, a door opened. A tall, blond man dressed in tight leather trousers and a purple velour shirt stepped out into the hallway. He wore his bleached shoulder-length hair in Shirley Temple ringlets; tiny diamonds sparkled in his ear lobes. He took two steps toward us, hesitated, then turned his back on us. Twitching his hips, he returned to his room. A moment later I heard a night chain rattle.

  “There’s the fire escape.” Canelli pointed to a red “Exit” sign at the end of the corridor.

  The rusty, iron fire escape creaked and rattled as we climbed up to the roof and over a carved stone parapet. Blake was lying on a brightly striped beach towel spread out on the tar-and-gravel roof. He was stripped to the waist, displaying a narrow-chested, rib-slatted torso. A blue sweat shirt was folded to pillow his head. A half-empty pint of Southern Comfort lay on its side, close to Blake’s hand. His eyes were closed. Like a corpse laid at rest, his hands were crossed across his chest.

  In the street below, the wail of an ambulance siren had covered the sound of our arrival. Now, suddenly, the shriek of the siren died.

  “Blake.”

  The muscles of his naked chest convulsed. On its scrawny neck his head jerked spasmodically toward the sound of my voice. His right hand darted down to his blind side—going for a gun.

  In the same instant that I dropped into a crouch, drawing my revolver, I saw recognition flash in his face—followed by pop-eyed, slack-jawed relief.

  “Oh—Jesus—Lieutenant.” He looked at me, looked at Canelli, then looked down at the chrome-steel Saturday-night special in his hand. He blinked at the gun, frowned, shook his head. Even before he spoke I knew instinctively what he’d say, and how he’d say it: “I—just—just happened to find it here. Honest. Someone just—just—” Still frowning earnestly, he continued to stare at the gun. Then, carefully, he placed it on the towel beside the half-filled bottle of Southern Comfort. “I guess maybe somebody ditched it up here, probably.”

  “I guess so.” I holstered my revolver, walked across the graveled rooftop and picked up the gun. Realizing that the situation offered me a chance to reestablish my credibility with Blake, I emptied the small chrome-plated .22 revolver and dropped the gun and cartridges into my pocket. “Some hood ditched it, probably.”

  “Or some dope pusher, maybe,” Canelli said, straight-faced.

  Blake suddenly sat up on the beach towel. Avoiding our eyes, he unfolded his sweat shirt and slipped it over his shoulders. Goose pimples covered his stringy arms; he was shivering.

  “It’s cold,” he muttered. “It got cold, all of a sudden.”

  “How come you’re sunbathing today?” Canelli asked amiably. “There’s hardly any sun.”

  Blake picked up the bottle of Southern Comfort and studied it for a moment. Finally he raised the bottle to me. It was a tentative, questioning gesture. “Do you, ah, mind if I have a little?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Noisily, he gulped down most of the syrupy liquor.

  “Ah—Jesus.” He wiped his mouth and carefully recapped the bottle. “Jesus, that’s good. See, I got this compulsion, I guess you’d call it. Whenever I’m locked up, even if it’s just overnight, I start thinking about Southern Comfort. And I got to get out in the sun, too. Even if there isn’t any sun. I still got to—” He let his voice die. Then, shivering and shaking his head, he said, “It’s crazy, I guess. Like I said, it’s a compulsion. A real hang-up.” As he spoke he was looking at me, anxiously blinking his washed-out loser’s eyes. “What about Ricco, Lieutenant?” he asked. “You found him yet?”

  “We’re working on it, Blake.”

  “Yeah. Well—” He licked his lips. “Well, I got an idea for you. I just thought about it. Just while I was lying here. I was going to give you a call, as a matter of fact.”

  “What’s the idea?”

  “Ricco owns a piece of a bar out on Mission Street. It’s called the Wayfarer. It’s not much of a bar—just one of those flea-bitten little neighborhood places. But I remember that once before, when he was hiding, he stayed in a room that’s behind the bar. So maybe he’s there. I mean, if you tried everywhere else, maybe he’s there.”

  “We’ll give it a try. Thanks.”

  “Yeah. Well, let me know.”

  “We will.”

  “Yeah. Well—” He got to his feet, placed the bottle of Southern Comfort on the gravel and began shaking out the beach towel. “Well, I guess I better get downstairs.”

  I waited for him to fold the beach towel and tuck it under his arm before I said, “We’ve got some news for you, Blake.”

  “News?” Anxiously scanning my face, he swallowed—once, twice. “What kind of news?”

  “We’ve identified ‘Thorson.’ We know who he is.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Joey Annunzio.”

  “Wh—” The tip of his tongue circled his pale lips. “Who’s Joey Annunzio?”

  “Joey Annunzio is a professional hit man,” Canelli said. “He’s a heavyweight. A real heavyweight. He comes from Miami. That’s where all the Mafia big shots are, you know. Miami.”

  “And he’s still in San Francisco,” I said.

  “Cleaning up after himself, maybe,” Canelli added. “Joey’s very careful. Very tidy. He never leaves any loose ends.”

  “Jesus. I—”

  “Did Ricco ever mention the name Annunzio to you?” I asked. “Ever?”

  “No. Jesus. Never. I swear to God, he—”

  “How about Thompson?” Canelli asked. “Did Ricco ever talk about Thompson?”

  Blake was vehemently shaking his head. “No. No Thompson. Just Thorson. I swear to God, that’s the only name I ever heard. Just Thorson.” Clutching the beach towel and Southern Comfort bottle close to his scrawny chest, Blake turned to me. His eyes were round and virtuous, pleading with me as he began to whine: “Listen, Lieutenant, you gotta give me protection. I—Jesus—I trusted you. I did everything you said. Everything.”

  “While you were going to the Beresford with Thorson,” I said, “did he say anything about how he got the Buick?�
�

  “No. He just said that it was cool. I remember that. I asked him if he’d stolen it. And he said—”

  From my left I heard the angry crack of a high-powered rifle. One shot—two—three. Canelli was yelling indignantly. Blake screamed. Something stung my face—brick chips, from a chimney. Momentarily I stood helplessly exposed, legs locked, arms useless. Then, slow-motion, I was throwing myself flat on the graveled roof. As I fell I twisted toward Blake. I saw his mouth come open. His round, anxious eyes blinked once—then froze in their sockets. Still clutching the bottle and the towel, he exhaled gently as his knees began to buckle. Slowly, reluctantly, he sank to an awkward sitting posture—then suddenly fell hard on his side. The bottle bounced on the gravel and spun in a lazy half-circle. As the towel fell away from his chest, I saw a circle of blood centered on his heart.

  Crawling awkwardly on elbows and knees, with his revolver in his right hand, Canelli was making for the stone parapet. Lying flat on my back, I fumbled for my walkie-talkie.

  “Swig.”

  “We heard it.”

  “He’s on the roof to your left—the roof that’s the same height as this one. Cover the front and back, you and Marsten. And get reinforcements, for God’s sake. We’ll stay here. Right here.” I realized that I was ineffectually shouting. With great effort, I steadied my voice: “Do you read me?”

  “Yes, sir. Roger.”

  I thrust the walkie-talkie in its case, drew my revolver and crawled across the rough gravel to crouch behind the parapet. Bent double, exposing only the top of his head, Canelli was staring at the neighboring roof, ten feet away.

  “See anything?”

  “When he first fired, before I dropped, I saw a head and a rifle,” Canelli breathed. “He was crouched down like we are now, resting his rifle on the ledge.”

  Sitting flat, with my back against the parapet, I spoke into the walkie-talkie: “Swig?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you got the front and back covered?”

  “Yeah.” As he spoke I heard a close-by siren. To myself, I nodded. The response time had been no more than a minute. Other sirens were coming, fast. In the Tenderloin cops were always close by.

  “What kind of a building is it?” I asked.

  “Apartments and ground-floor storefronts,” Swig said. “Just like Blake’s building.”

  “I want you and Marsten to seal the exits. Don’t let anyone in or out. Tenants, customers—I don’t care. No one leaves. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s clear.”

  “Has anyone come out of the front?”

  A moment’s hesitation. Then: “I don’t think so. I had radio trouble for a few seconds. There was a lot happening. But I don’t think anyone came out.”

  “We’ll be down in a couple of minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I slipped the walkie-talkie in its case, twisted, rose to my knees and peered cautiously over the stone parapet. Then I glanced at the fire escape, twenty-five feet away. My suit was less than a year old, one of my favorites. I wasn’t going to crawl on my hand and knees across twenty-five feet of gravel. “See anything, Canelli?” I asked.

  “No, sir. He’s gone down off the roof, probably.”

  “Let’s stand up. We’ll have a better angle.”

  “Right.”

  In unison, revolvers held ready, we straightened.

  “Hey—” Canelli was pointing. “Look. There. By that door, there.”

  In its own small square enclosure, the door that led down from the roof was ajar. On the gravel beside the door I saw a rifle—a carbine, with a shortened barrel. Its wooden stock had been cut off just behind the bulge of the pistol grip.

  “He’s gone, sure as hell,” Canelli said.

  I holstered my revolver and turned to look at Blake. His sightless eyes were wide, staring up at the sky. His blue sweat shirt was blood-soaked.

  “He was dead before he hit the ground,” I said.

  “Poor guy,” Canelli said. “He was a loser. A real loser. I bet he hasn’t laughed for ten years.”

  Fifteen

  “WHAT I CAN’T FIGURE out,” Canelli said, “is how he got away so quick. I mean, that whole building was bottled up in two minutes. Less than two minutes.”

  I pointed to the next corner. “That’s Twenty-ninth Street. It’s not far, now.”

  “Right.”

  Bound for Ricco’s Wayfarer bar, we were traveling south on Mission Street. The hour was six o’clock, dinner time. As we passed a Mexican restaurant I remembered that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “I wonder if he knew we were cops,” Canelli mused.

  “Who?”

  “Annunzio.”

  “How do you know it was Annunzio?”

  “Well, I—” He glanced at me, frowning. “I just think so. I mean, it looked like a professional hit. Don’t you think so?”

  Wearily, I nodded. “Yes, I think so.” I was trying not to imagine what Dwyer would say, learning that Blake had been killed while he was talking to me. As soon as the building next to 387 Mason had been secured and a floor-by-floor, room-by-room search organized, I’d phoned Friedman at the Hall. When I finished my brief report there was a long silence on the line. Finally Friedman had sighed: a long, rueful exhalation.

  “Earlier today you mentioned my war with the brass,” he’d said. “I guess you know this is a major victory for the other side.”

  Already feeling angry and frustrated, suffering from the delayed shock of facing a gun, I’d sharply reminded him that releasing Blake had been his idea, not mine. And immediately I’d regretted saying it. “Sorry,” I’d muttered. Then, trying to explain: “I tore my sleeve, crawling across the goddamn roof.”

  He’d sighed again. “Don’t mention it. What about Ricco?”

  I’d told him that Canelli and I were already in the Mission District, following Blake’s tip.

  “There it is,” Canelli said. “The Wayfarer.”

  I’d phoned for reinforcements, and asked Culligan to set up operations at the scene. When we saw Culligan’s empty cruiser parked in front of the Wayfarer, Canelli and I locked our own cruiser and walked inside. The Wayfarer was dark and dingy, barely wide enough to accommodate a red Formica bar and a single row of plastic-covered red barstools, many of them cracked across the seat. Behind the bar a mirror covered the entire wall. The mirror was garishly decorated with palm trees, rolling surf, sandy beaches and hula girls. Green plastic palm fronds and woven rattan mats were tacked to the walls. The Wayfarer smelled of dust, dampness and stale beer.

  Culligan sat at one end of the bar; a General Works detective sat at the other end. Midway between the two detectives the bartender stood, leaning against the back bar, arms folded impassively across his Hawaiian shirt.

  When Culligan saw us he unfolded his long, loose-limbed body, turned his back on the bartender and came to meet us. At the far end of the bar the G.W. man gestured for the bartender to join him, so that our conversation wouldn’t be overheard. Culligan glanced back at the bartender, then spoke in a low voice. “It looks like an easy one, Lieutenant. All we do is go out through the back of the bar. There’s an areaway back there, for garbage cans. The door to the apartment opens off the areaway. It’s actually a separate little cottage. There’s no rear entrance to the apartment. The only way out is two windows. But they’re small, and they’re about six feet high. Two G.W. guys are back there. There’s a utility door that opens from the area-way to the sidewalk. It’s bolted from the inside. Or, at least it was. I’ve got two uniformed men watching it. They’re in a black-and-white car.” Speaking in his customary slow, uninflected monotone, Culligan could have been repeating a shopping list. Now, with his report complete he stood with shoulders slumped, arms dangling slack at his sides. In the momentary silence I could hear his stomach rumbling. Culligan suffered from ulcers.

  “What about Ricco? Have you seen him?”

  “No. He got here three, four hours ago—abo
ut three o’clock, the bartender says. He hasn’t come out since. The bartender says he came in with a woman. So the bartender figures—” Culligan hesitated. “He figures they’re asleep by now. I went out there a couple of minutes ago, to try and see inside. But I couldn’t. The shades were drawn.”

  I glanced over his shoulder. “How reliable is the bartender?”

  Shrugging his bony shoulders, Culligan shook his head. “Beats me, Lieutenant.” Culligan was always reluctant to commit himself.

  “Guess.”

  Again he shrugged. “Probably reliable,” he said grudgingly.

  “Are the lights on in the apartment?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “All right. The two of you stay here, on reserve. Canelli and I will go in. Tell the men outside. And close that—” I pointed to the front door. “We don’t need spectators.”

  “Yes, sir.” Culligan strode to the door, shot the bolt, then spoke into his walkie-talkie. I led the way down the row of barstools to the rear door. A short hallway with “his” and “hers” doors led to a big metal fire door, unbarred. I swung the heavy door back toward me and left it open. The cool night air was heavily laden with the smell of garbage. An oblong of light from the doorway fell on three rats working methodically at an overflowing refuse can. As I advanced, the rats moved reluctantly behind the cans.

  I stepped to the service door that led to the sidewalk, verified that it was bolted, then walked to the door of the apartment. With my revolver drawn I stood silently for a moment, listening. Except for the scurrying sound of the rats I heard nothing. I reached cautiously for the doorknob—and touched freshly splintered wood. The door had been forced. It was closed but not latched. I flattened myself against the wall to the right of the door, then waited for Canelli to move to the left. Simultaneously, we nodded. I placed my fingertips against the door, and gently pushed. Creaking, the door swung open.

  From inside, mingled with the fetid odor of garbage from the open areaway, I caught the unmistakable stench of violent death: vomit and excrement mixed with the sickly-sweet smell of drying blood.

  Crouched over my revolver, I moved through the open doorway and into the darkened room. Pale light from a nearby street lamp filtered through two small windows set high in the rear wall. The twin shafts of light fell across a studio couch, opened into a double bed. A man and a woman lay side by side in the middle of the bed. Both were naked. Both had apparently been shot twice—once in the chest, once in the center of the forehead.